


Mikael Pacioli

by Kabi



Series: November [9]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate History, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, CarrierVerse, Forced Relationship, Gender Identity, Gender Roles, M/M, Maledom, Monastery, Mpreg, Religion, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-03
Updated: 2016-08-15
Packaged: 2017-11-02 23:21:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 27,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/374503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kabi/pseuds/Kabi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mikael is an orphan raised in a monastery in the Northern Territories. When he Changes, he is unprepared for the kind of life a carrier must live.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mikael

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.

"Father?" George, the youngest at St. Xavier's Abbey, poked his chestnut head around the doorway of the accounting room. Father Pacioli looked up from his books, his eyes appearing owlish behind the thick glasses.  
"Yes, George?"  
The young man hesitated in the doorway, his height making him take up almost the entirety of the frame.  
"It's Mikael." he said, and his voice was so full of worry that Father Pacioli began to close his papers up immediately. "He's worse."

~:~

The doctor rested his stethoscope around his neck and looked gently down at his young patient.  
"It's not illness." he said, simply. "It's the Change."  
Father Pacioli, if he had any reaction to this, did not show it. But Mikael had to grip himself to keep from falling over.  
"How?! It can't be - I haven't - " he lowered his voice, "I haven't had any pain."  
The doctor regarded him with a sort of gentle indulgence.  
"It will come. Within the next day or so."  
Mikael swallowed and ran a hand through his short, sandy hair.  
"It can't be anything else?"  
The doctor shook his head.  
"It's a very simple thing, to test for this. I've checked you twice."  
The world was blurring into strange colors in front of Mikael's eyes, but he blinked it away.  
"You're sure, doctor?"  
The doctor leaned forward and put a hand on Mikael's knee beneath the blanket. The young man almost flinched, but caught himself at the last second. The doctor looked him in the eyes.  
"I'll tell you what, Mikael - if there is no pain in 24 hours, you call me and I'll arrange for a new doctor personally." Mikael watched as the man patted his leg comfortingly, then rose, gathered his things, and with a nod to Father Pacioli - "Padre, always a pleasure." - departed.

In his absence, only Mikael, Father Pacioli, and the unfaceable future were left. Mikael looked down at his tanned hands, trembling atop the cream cotton blanket. Father Pacioli, still lingering by the fireplace, waited for him to speak first.

"I - this is incomprehensible." Mikael finally managed, by way of an opener. Father Pacioli fingered the rosary in his left hand, leaning forward to look into the fire.  
"The plan of the Almighty usually is." he answered, not revealing anything. Mikael swallowed down the itchiness in his throat.  
"Well. It'll - it will be a change, but I'll only be out of commission a week, at the most, and then I can get back into helping Brother Heron with the shipments for next month, and I suppose the beehives will keep until I'm back. At worst - "  
"Mikael." Father Pacioli had turned from the fire and was looking at him now, the rosary tucked back into its little pocket, the elder man's hands clasped behind his back. 

He turned sorrowful eyes on the young man in the bed.   
"I'm afraid that won't be possible."  
Mikael had feared this. He had known what might be said, but he had to try, hadn't he? Had to at least attempt to hold on to himself. He licked his lips and swallowed.  
"I'll be good." he promised, feebly.  
Father Pacioli crossed the room with his usual slow gait, stopping just at the head of Mikael's bed. The younger monk moved to give him room to sit; he did so.  
"You understand, Mikael, the conventions of the monastic."  
Mikael swallowed again.  
"Yes, but what of the sister orders? They practice in concert with - "  
"You are not a sister." Father Pacioli told him, firmly. Then, more gently, "Those orders are few and far between, and for good reason. In the state of things, they are...an impracticality."  
Mikael surged forward, struggling to sit up despite his aching head.  
"Physically, yes, but there are real spiritual needs that continue to be - "  
"Mikael." Father Pacioli turned halfway, resting his hand first on Mikael's fevered brow, then on his chest, where his heart pounded beneath the thin cotton shirt. His expression was regretful, and sincere, and it broke through the last of Mikael's protests and justifications. "Mikael." he repeated, and the young man beneath his hand shivered and gave way and began to cry.  
"Please don't send me away," he pleaded, "Please don't make me leave."

Father Pacioli watched his son with a sort of anguished pity.  
"Mikael, St. Xavier's will always be your home. But you cannot hide within its walls."  
"I'm not hiding! Please, Dad, just don't - " he took a few breaths to collect himself and Father Pacioli could see now the strain on him, the damp pallor of skin and the straining of muscles. "Don't make go, please, don't make me go."  
Mikael began to cry again, this time in earnest, and Father Pacioli sat with him, waiting for the risen tide to fade again. Eventually, the shuddering subsided to a shiver and the heart slowed to an almost-normal beat.  
"You can stay here to complete your change. George and I will watch over you. But after the week, Mikael, we will have to move on."  
Distress made the young monk heave forward.  
"Why can't I just stay?!" he enjoined, voice so near to a whimper that Father Pacioli felt pangs of sorrow strike his own heart.  
"Because you are very special, Mikael." he answered, settling his hand on the boy's own, as he had done since Mikael was a child. "And your place is elsewhere."


	2. II

The hours of each day passed slowly for Mikael; bedridden, and often out of his mind with the medications or, when those wore away, the pain. George sat with him most days, reading aloud from some of the old texts as he translated them, or reciting memorized prayers for well-being. Father Pacioli stayed with him at night; he had drawn a little cot into the room where Mikael slept, and nestled it beside the fireplace. At night, Mikael watched the long body fold into the small space and felt comforted. 

Once his female entrance was well formed, the doctor was called again to come and examine him.   
The elder man arrived, promptly, with his bag slung over one shoulder and a placative expression on his face. Father Pacioli opened the door for him when he knocked; Mikael drew back into the bed and felt apprehensive. He had undressed in preparation, but now the prospect of the actual examination frightened him. He hadn't been touched in that way, ever, by other human hands. He tried to sit up in the bed so that perhaps he wouldn't feel so vulnerable. The doctor waved him down.  
"No, no. Please. On your back will be easier."  
Mikael cast a questioning glance at Father Pacioli, but the old man seemed lost in his thoughts and offered no comfort. Mikael lowered himself back down, still-weak arms trembling with the effort. Seeing his patient settled into place, the doctor glanced up at Father Pacioli.  
"If you wouldn't mind standing by his head, please?"  
The old priest startled and scuttled over to stand by the proper side of Mikael's bed.  
"Naturally, naturally. Of course."  
Mikael glanced at his father, then at the doctor.   
"He can - I'll be OK, Father." he offered, a meager invitation for Father Pacioli to go. The doctor interrupted, shook his head, and smiled a conciliatory smile.  
"I'm afraid it's protocol, Mikael. For a carrier's first exam, I need a witness - to ensure your safety and mine."  
Mikael nodded as best he could.  
"OK. OK, that - that's fine, then."

The doctor was quick, but thorough, and Mikael was shivering in cold sweat by the time he was finished.  
"There," he said, tugging the blanket back down and rushing to put things away. "All over. It's all done."  
Mikael nodded gratefully.  
"Am I, um, normal?"  
The doctor chortled a little.  
"Yes, you're normal. No obvious complications. You should be fine." To Father Pacioli, he asked: "When does the CEC come?"  
The older man rubbed his wrist where his watch usually was.  
"Tomorrow. After breakfast."  
The doctor nodded and burrowed into his bag again.   
"Alright. This, then - if you need it, until you get to the Centre." he retrieved a small cotton bag and handed it to Mikael. Incautiously, he opened it immediately. The doctor gestured to the little package. "There are instructions, if you don't know how to use them. They'll keep your - "   
"I know," Mikael interrupted sharply, embarrassment stinging at his face, "what these are for, Doctor - thanks."  
Father Pacioli frowned.  
"Mikael, your manners."  
Mikael shut his eyes for a second, then opened them.  
"My apologies, doctor, I didn't mean to be rude. Thank you." he said, not looking at the man.  
The doctor patted his shoulder.  
"You'll be fine, Mikael. I'm sure of it."  
Father Pacioli nodded in agreement, then ushered the doctor out.

Afterwards, when he was alone, Mikael touched himself with rough fingers and wept.

~

That night, George sat with him as usual, reading aloud from some French philosopher or the other while Mikael watched the fire and began to doze. When he woke, George was quiet, watching him from his chair. Mikael sat fully awake.

George leaned in a little closer - slowly, as if not wanting to frighten his friend.  
"Mikael?" he asked, his big hands thumbing the spine of the book he held nervously. "What does it feel like?"  
It occurred to Mikael only then that George had never, and would never, in all his years, know the sight of any body besides his own. Mikael was nearly the same, spared George's naïvete only by the years he had spent homeless before coming to the Abbey. 

Mikael looked at the man who had been his constant friend and companion since he'd arrived. George's gaze was fixed solidly on him, peering as if trying to see through the blankets, the clothing, into the very core of him. Mikael shivered, awkwardly.  
"It feels...soft. And strange." he looked away. "Nothing special."  
George shook his head, his gaze still focused.  
"It is special." he reproved Mikael, "Very special."

Then, as abruptly as the moment had arisen, it disappeared. George went back to reading aloud from his book, and Mikael, after a moment's pause, went back to dozing by the fire.


	3. III.

Mikael demanded that no one make a big fuss over his leaving, and so they did not. His final meal was a quiet dinner in the hall with all the brothers, each of whom cast thoughtful looks his way but never spoke of what they seemed to be thinking. Mikael sat next to George and drank his soup as if nothing were awry. 

In the morning, Father Pacioli went looking for Mikael. 

The bedroom he had held since his change was empty, the linens stripped and piled up to be washed. Mikael's real room - the one beside Father Pacioli's that he'd held since childhood - was empty, as well. The photographs had been taken from the shelves, the red wind-up clock and assorted craft items had been packed away, and the bed had been made up plainly. The single lamp, the artwork on the walls, and the shelf of books remained.

Father Pacioli left the room and went into the major sanctuary. Mikael was nowhere to be found, but a painting of the Pietà caught the light and suggested an answer.

Shortly, he found his son kneeling at the altar of the Shrine of the Virgin. Father Pacioli waited - in his years, he had learned to wait - and eventually Mikael lifted his head.  
"Praying for intercession?" the elder man asked lightly, making his presence known. Mikael didn't turn around, but shook his head.  
"Praying for protection." he answered.  
Father Pacioli came and knelt beside him.  
"Protection." he repeated. "From what?"  
Mikael rubbed a finger along the chipping wood of the altar.  
"From the world. From - from them."  
Father Pacioli frowned.  
"Them?"  
"Men." his son answered, quietly. Father Pacioli was quiet. Mikael pressed his thumb against a knot of wood. "She," he began, vaguely indicating the portrait above, "She looks out for virgins, doesn't she? Wouldn't she?"  
Father Pacioli laid a tender hand on Mikael's shoulder.  
"She looks out for all of us, Mikael."

The younger monk frowned, scratched his thumbnail across the spot where the wood protruded, and then looked helplessly up at his father.  
"I can't do this."  
The admission was heartbreakingly honest, overwhelmingly abject in its plea. Father Pacioli shook his head.  
"Yes, you can, Mikael. God will help you."  
Mikael shook his head, then nodded, then was washed out in the flood of tears that erupted. His father came forward, squeezed him, held him close until the convulsions had abated. Distantly, the bells chimed that it was 0900 hours. 

"Mikael," Father Pacioli said gently, wanting not to disturb the young man unnecessarily, "It's time."

~:~

The jeep ride to the CEC would be a long one, even with the government's recent road repairs. Mikael was seated in the back, behind an iron grate, squeezed between two lumbering chaperones who blocked his window views.

The driver and passenger at the front wore identical uniforms and spoke in low voices to each other, and loud, clear ones to Mikael. They asked him intermittent bursts of questions throughout their journey - was he hungry? Did he need water? Bathroom? Was he warm enough? Too warm?

They offered him a pack of pamphlets and a small paper box, which turned out to be filled with fruit, a cracker sandwich, a juice bottle, and some sweets. He chewed on a piece of gum because it kept him from grinding his teeth.

The landscape whizzed by and he caught glimpses of it between the iron bars and the bodies of the chaperones.

He tried to look through the pamphlets - _The Rules & Regulations of Wiltshire Carrier Education Centre; Welcome to Wiltshire; Your New Life As A Carrier - What To Expect The First Week After Your Change._ \- but reading in motion made him carsick and he stopped. After a while, he began to doze, and found himself waking against the cold shoulder of a steely-faced chaperone.

Then, abruptly, the jeep was slowing to a stop at the first security checkpoint and the passenger in the front seat turned around and smiled at Mikael.  
"We're here."

~:~

Wiltshire Carrier Education Centre was a premier facility, one of the finest of its type. It served also as an experimental center for new approaches to carrier education, and had been the flagship for the now-nationwide Outdoor Access and Carrier Credit programs. It carried the reputation of being the most generous CEC in the freedoms it allowed carriers, but also the most stringent in the enforcement of the boundaries of those freedoms.

Naturally, Mikael Pacioli knew none of this.


	4. IV.

The American Craftsman-style building where the jeep stopped was impressive, in both size and artful construction. It dwarfed its landscape, appearing at times to tower on the horizon; yet, drawing closer, Mikael almost lost parts of it - the pale greens and rich browns bled so smoothly into the surrounding countryside. It amazed him that something so large could have been built so elegantly. St. Xavier's wasn't a tenth the size of this place, he was sure.

The engine shut off and the man in the front passenger seat got out first, then opened the rear doors to release the chaperones and Mikael.  
"We're just going to go straight in those glass doors there." he indicated, pointing to the structure at some distance across a graveled driveway and brick entry path. "The chaperones will get your bags and take them in to your room. You won't need anything but your ID."

When Mikael paused, lingering by the car as if not wanting to go alone, the man spoke up again.  
"It's the last chance you get to walk through those doors on your own, carrier." he said, mildly. "Seize it."

~

The reception desk in the entrance hall was huge, blocking up pretty much the entirety of the room. Four chaperones stationed around the room monitored the comings and goings. As they entered, the carrier sitting behind the desk popped up brightly. 

"Hello! Welcome to the CEC! I'm Blake. How can I help you today?"  
Mikael hesitated, suddenly at a loss for words. The driver stepped forward.  
"Hi, Blake. Registering a new carrier today. This is Mikael Pacioli."

Blake smiled brightly at him and turned to type the name into his screen, his blonde hair falling forward into his face as he did so. Mikael had never seen a carrier before - not besides himself, of course - and he found it difficult not to stare. Blake was slim without being skinny and had adorable features - freckles over a ski-jump nose, pale green eyes set at a slight angle and accented with dark lashes, and a sharp point of a chin. Mikael wondered if he had always looked this way - this curious androgyny - or if it was an effect of the change. Blake, seemingly oblivious to this scrutiny, wrinkled his nose as he typed, never losing his smile.

"OK...Pacioli. That's with a C, right?"  
Mikael nodded.  
"P-A-C-I-O-L-I."  
Blake scratched with one hand at a freckled nose and frowned in consternation at his screen. All at once, he brightened and flipped his hair backwards over one shoulder.  
"Oh! OK! There you are." he peered at the screen. "Boy, you're a recent change, aren't you?" he asked cheerily.  
Mikael nodded uneasily.  
"Yes."  
"Oh! Hey! You're in my group." he said suddenly, smiling broadly at Mikael. "You're my last one - I've been waiting for you to get here. Let me just get your packet together, and then I can take you on a tour and show you your room." Blake looked up at him, and his eyes flicked down the new carrier's body before he turned back to the two uniformed men. "Thanks, Officers - I've got it from here."  
The one who had driven the car gave a short nod.  
"Just need you to sign off, then." he stuck out a slim glass sig pad and Blake scribbled something on it. The officer tilted his hat at the pair of them, then turned and left, followed closely by his companion.

Blake leaned forward. "Welcome to Wiltshire, Mikael. I just know you're going to have a _great_ time here."

~:~

Room Eagle-304 was his: a south-facing room in one of the far west wings of Wiltshire. The room was on the highest floor of that wing, overlooking the empty field behind the Center and, in the distance, the electric fence that separated the grounds from the forest. Two single cedar beds had been placed along the pale blue western wall, one large bay window separating them. Blake went in first.

"Your roommate's name is Nicolo, and he's really excited to meet you. You'll be the fifth person in our group - I'm the peer group leader, or PGL, and so if you have any problems or questions or need anything at all, you can just come to me, OK?"

Mikael nodded as he looked around. The half of the room closer to the door was obviously occupied by Nicolo - the bed was half-made, clothes were scattered on the window seat, and personal effects were strewn around the floor. Blake made an annoyed face at this, but ignored it in favor of helping Mikael settle in.  
"Well!" the blonde carrier clapped his hands together, then pulled an elastic band from his pocket and tied his hair back. "Let's get you unpacked!"

They dissected the backpack first, which Mikael now noticed was embroidered with his first and middle names. The contents were straightforward:  
A folder containing his introduction information and first week's schedule, so that he wouldn't get lost trying to make all his appointments.  
Three sets of carrier briefs in bright colors because, according to Blake, new carriers _never_ had proper underwear.  
A prettily decorated package of toiletries in a small plastic bin, just in case he was missing anything.   
A bound notebook and Bible, along with three books for new carriers; Mikael did not notice the titles.  
An emergency whistle, compass, and flashlight.  
And last, a luxury - a beautiful blue leatherbound journal.

Blake looked longingly at the last item, setting aside the shirt he'd been folding to stroke its cover.  
"Sometimes it really helps to keep a diary of your experiences; to be able to look back and see how far you've come." he said said, paging curiously through the blank journal. He paused, turning the book over in gentle hands. "At least - it helped me."

~:~

It was late afternoon before Mikael was released to his own recognizance and schedule. His day had been carefully orchestrated by Blake and the CEC not to feel carefully orchestrated; they casually bumped into all of his new counselors, stumbled across all the necessary parts of the facility, found a spare brochure on the amenities and rules of each, and managed to get a hold of the Head of House for Eagle Wing. Once everyone felt that Mikael had been properly introduced, then there had been endless amounts of paperwork to complete his registration (most of which required a custodial signature and so would be mailed to Father Pacioli on the following day), two introductory videos to watch, a general health interview and a scheduling office orientation. And he hadn't even eaten yet. 

It was this particular problem that led Mikael out of his newfound room and down the wide halls, back to the dining hall that Blake had shown him earlier. It was too early for dinner, but he figured he could probably find some sort of snack. Following the crowd, he took a tray and got into the entry line. A bored-looking carrier swiped his ID card, and Mikael pressed his thumbprint to the reader to verify, then moved to enter the dining hall.

"Oh, wait." the carrier was frowning at his screen. "You missed two meals. I have to orange flag you."  
Mikael frowned.  
"I didn't miss two meals. I only got here this afternoon. Meals are mandatory?"  
The carrier looked at him as if he were very, very stupid.  
"Of course meals are mandatory. You think you don't have to eat?" the carrier rolled his eyes and refocused on his screen. "Anyway, I'm orange flagging you once for the missed meals and once for the missed meds."  
Mikael looked astonished.  
"But I don't have any meds to miss."  
The carrier exhaled in annoyance and pointedly looked at the line now forming behind Mikael.  
"They come with the meals. Don't be difficult."  
Mikael's expression changed to bewilderment.  
"I wasn't being difficult, I - look, is there someone I could talk to about this? I didn't know the rules, and I wasn't even here. I just think - "  
"OK, FINE. Geez." the carrier blew his hair out of his face and indicated to one of the guards over his shoulder. "He'll deal with you."  
The next person in line stepped up, and the carrier swiped his card.  
"Thanks..." Mikael began, but was interrupted by a rough hand on his shoulder.  
"Problem?"   
The bored-looking carrier waved a hand vaguely at the bored-looking guard who had arrived to relieve him.  
"Orange flag. Missed meals."  
The guard shifted his grip on his stun rifle and frowned at Mikael.  
"Missing meals isn't allowed."  
Mikael sighed.  
"Yes, I know. I just - "  
"You got written permission?"  
Mikael frowned.  
"Permission for what?"  
"Miss meals. Miss meds."  
Mikael shook his head in disbelief.  
"No, I don't. I wasn't even here for those meals. This is my first day. I just got here this afternoon. I could not have possibly attended those two meals, even if I wanted to."

The guard nodded skeptically.  
"Right. You got any paperwork for that?"  
"Not with me, but - "  
"Orange flag stays. You need to see your PGL after the meal, talk about this."  
Mikael pressed one finger against his temple; his head was beginning to ache alongside his stomach.  
"OK. Fine. I'll talk to Blake. Thank you for your time."  
Mikael moved to leave, but a hand snatched his arm in a tight grip, almost making him drop his empty tray. The guard narrowed his eyes.  
"You dismissing me, carrier?"  
Mikael hesitated. Behind him, the entrance line had quieted somewhat. Mikael shook his head.  
"I wasn't dismissing you. I was just going to go get some lunch."  
The guard's expression darkened.  
"You walk away from me when I say you can walk away from me. You get lunch when _I say_ you can get lunch."  
Mikael wasn't really sure what had transpired to bring them to this point of hostility, but he wasn't about to escalate it. He squeezed his hand around the edge of the tray.  
"OK." he said, quietly. "Fine. Sorry." he stopped himself short of asking to be released; some things were not worth the loss of pride. He could wait it out. The guard stared at him.  
"Another yellow flag for insolent behavior."  
Mikael gritted his teeth.  
"Alright. I'm sorry that you felt my behavior was insolent."  
Now the guard really looked annoyed.  
"That's two yellow flags, plus an orange, all in one day. You are well on your way to a behavioral audit, little carrier."

Mikael resented the scorn in the honorific, but he let it go. The other carriers nearby were quieting now, all tuning in to watch the standoff. Mikael took a deep breath and centered himself, controlled his anger.

"Thank you for letting me know. Could I please go eat my lunch now?"  
The guard practically snarled.  
"No. You'll eat when it's dinnertime. I don't feel like letting you in my d-fac right now."  
The tips of Mikael's ears pinkened, but he just nodded.  
"OK. Then would you mind if I went back to my room?"  
The guard stared at him for a long moment. Abruptly, he released Mikael's arm, only to lean down close to his face.  
"Sure. How about I escort you?"  
Mikael took an unconscious step back, placing the tray between himself and the guard.  
"No, thank you." he responded, not looking at him.  
"No, really." the guard said, calmly, his eyes intent on catching Mikael's. "I insist."

Mikael looked away, suddenly aware of the ongoing attention he was garnering, and wisely decided not rise to this.  
"Can I go, please, now?" he repeated. The guard took a step back and gave Mikael a look of scorn.  
"Yeah. Sure. You can go now. Get the fuck out of my d-fac." he shoved the carrier, roughly with the butt of his rifle, and Mikael almost lost his balance for a minute before recovering. A quiet murmur went up from the crowd. Mikael shook his head, set the tray down on a nearby table, and hightailed it out of the cafeteria, not giving the man the satisfaction of looking over his shoulder. Halfway to Eagle Wing, he changed his mind, switched directions, and went to the library instead.

~:~

Blake came and found him for dinner; Mikael had taken advantage of the quiet afternoon to nap in a secluded corner of the library..  
"Hey, sleepyhead."  
Mikael opened his eyes, confused for a moment by the strange voice waking him. He startled, then memory caught up with consciousness and he sat up from where he'd been napping on a bench behind the stacks.  
"Hey, Blake. Sorry, I didn't mean to fall asleep..." a thought occurred to him, and he looked immediately for his watch, which was not on his wrist - it had been confiscated when he'd entered the Centre. "I didn't miss dinner, did I?"  
Blake smiled gently and shook his head, wisps of hair flying into his face.  
"Nope. It's in ten minutes." his expression got a little more serious. "I heard you had some trouble today."  
Mikael looked over Blake's face quickly for any sign of disapproval.  
"The computer said I missed two meals. A guard got mad at me about it."  
Blake nodded, slowly.  
"And is that all?"

Mikael wasn't sure what answer to give, so he just nodded. Blake furrowed his brow, then glanced over his shoulder, smoothed his hair behind one ear, and leaned forward.

"Listen, don't let guys like Wilson intimidate you. For all his big talk, he's just a grunt. He really can't lay a hand on you, OK? Not without bringing hell down on his own head. But guys like him, they rely on fear for their power, so he likes to mess with the newbies." Blake frowned. "He knows you don't know any better. But now you do. So if he messes with you again, or he makes you feel uncomfortable, you come tell me, alright? I'll take care of it."

Mikael nodded mutely, uncertain what the correct response to this would be. Blake grinned at him.  
"So...next time you want to take a nap, you can do it in your own room. No need to hide out in the stacks from Officer Wilson and his attitude."  
Mikael blushed a little, but gave Blake a grateful smile.   
The blond carrier grinned more broadly, then clapped both hands to his thighs and began to stand up.  
"Alright! Well, let's get on to dinner before all the good stuff is gone."

Mikael followed him. Halfway out of the stacks, another thought gave him pause.  
"So how did you hear? That I had trouble?" he asked. Blake threw an amused look over his shoulder.  
"Wiltshire's only so big, Mikael." he grinned. "I hear everything."


	5. One Week.

"So how is everything going, Mikael?" Father Pacioli's voice, even coming from miles away and distorted by the poor connection, was a comfort. Mikael almost cried.  
"It's - it's OK, Dad." was all he managed to say.  
"Is it? Are your group members nice?"  
"Yeah," Mikael said, trying to inject some enthusiasm into his voice. "There's Nicolo, my roommate, and Yusef, and Max, Andy and Dee, and they're all really nice. And Blake, my group leader - he's nice, too."  
"Good." Father Pacioli said, "That's good." There was some silence, and then Father Pacioli asked, "Tell me about Blake. Does he teach your group?"  
Mikael shook his head, even though he couldn't be seen.  
"No, he's just sort of our leader? He helps us - guides us through all the processes and coordinates everything and checks up on us." Mikael laughed a little. "He's sort of like Brother Damon, except a lot lighter on his feet."  
Father Pacioli laughed at this, too.  
"I'll be sure to tell Brother Damon you're in good hands, then." he said, and Mikael could hear the smile in his voice.  
Mikael went on.  
"And Blake's supposed to be a kind of role model for us, too, I think, since he's already married and everything. Which is weird, because I didn't think that they let married carriers work."  
Father Pacioli made a thoughtful sound.  
"Perhaps things are more nuanced than you anticipated."  
Mikael shrugged, then glanced over his shoulder. The chaperone across the room hadn't blinked or moved.  
"Maybe. But I still - I don't like some of the things they do here."

Mikael was usually careful, whenever he was on the phone with St. Xavier's, not to complain about the Centre. There was no point, he knew, in complaining about what could not be changed, and he didn't want anyone to worry about him - about his imagined suffering.

Father Pacioli was silent, waiting for more. Mikael couldn't resist the small admission:  
"They do everything so…selfishly here. Not like with us. And the carriers don't learn any…any of our sort of skills. Building, or carving, or caring for animals or anything like that. And they hardly _ever_ read." Father Pacioli nodded thoughtfully on the other end of the line. Before he could speak, Mikael piped up again. "But there are good things, too. I'm learning to cook, in one of my classes, and a lot about marriages and relationships in another. That one's a psychology one; it's my favorite."   
"Ah. Any others?"  
"Carrier Reproduction. General Carrier Studies, and Introductory Etiquette."  
Father Pacioli laughed out loud at the last mention.  
"I'll expect letters home from your professor in that one." he teased, and Mikael drew up a little indignantly.  
"Letters of commendation, you mean." he rejoined. Father Pacioli chuckled a little, but relented.  
"Of course. Of course. Now go on - what else is there?"  
"Well," Mikael began, and there was a twinge of something different in his voice now, "They gave me a - a new schedule."  
"A new schedule?"  
"For my, um, my progress. They said they want me to be match-ready by - by the end of October."  
"By the fall?" F. Pacioli couldn't disguise the surprise in his voice. "That's very soon, Mikael. Do you think you'll be ready by then?"  
Mikael laughed, mirthlessly.  
"No. But that's the point, I think, of the schedules - they're supposed to make you push yourself to get adjusted."  
"And how _are_ you adjusting?" F. Pacioli asked, this time probing more deeply. Mikael ran a hand through his hair; a few strands came out with it.  
"I don't know." he said, honestly. "I think I'm doing OK. I'm good in my classes. And I just - I have this test coming up, my one-month evaluation. But if that's OK then I should be fine. At the six-month eval, that's when they'll really know how well I'm doing."

Of course, Father Pacioli knew this much already - the orientation packet for parents and loved ones that had been presented to him by mail shortly after Mikael had left was very informative. And the CEC case manager who had called thereafter kept him generally apprised of Mikael's needs and doings. He had been warned about the one-month evaluation, and the six-month as well.

"But how do you _think_ you're doing?" F. Pacioli asked again.  
Mikael shrugged, feeling weakened by the conversation. How could he tell his father how he really felt? Terrified, weak, like an outsider, isolated, ignorant, ridiculous, humiliated, and then terrified all over again. Something in the corner caught Mikael's eye; over his shoulder, the chaperone was raising one hand in a ten-minute warning gesture.  
"I think I'm doing OK." he said, turning back to the phone. Changing the topic, he went on: "In class on Monday, we started learning complex pastries. I'll be out-baking you in no time." he teased, with false happiness. Father Pacioli refused to agree to the facade.   
"I need to know, Mikael, how you're doing. And I need to know from you, because I'm afraid that your word might be the only honest report I can get." the older man declared. Mikael shivered.  
"I'm OK, Dad. Really. I promise."  
"Do you promise, Mikael?"  
There was some silence. Mikael swallowed.  
"Father?"  
"Yes, Mikael?"  
"Can I - can you come and see me? Please?"  
F. Pacioli had no surprise to hide at this request.  
"Of course I can, Mikael. I thought you might like a few weeks to yourself, but…"  
"I'm good." he said, quickly. "I'm adjusted. Or adjusting. But I just might like to see my dad, that's all."  
Father Pacioli's voice became firm and calm immediately.  
"I'll come as soon as I can, Mikael - perhaps a week. Will that be alright?"  
Mikael nodded, although his heart was breaking and a week felt like years to him.  
"Yes, of course." he swallowed, and his throat felt tight. "Definitely." There was a pause, and then Mikael went on. "Well, yeah, so I've only got six more minutes left, and then that's all my call time for today - will you give everyone my love, and tell George to send me some reprints of our books? He can pick which ones."  
"Alright."  
"But you have to send them through the Book Office, remember, or else they'll just get confiscated and I can't have them, OK?"  
"OK, Mikael."  
"And Blake needs you to sign off on the results of my first full exam, so he's just going to mail those to you ASAP, OK?"

Father Pacioli went quiet.  
"You had your first exam?"  
They had tried to postpone this particular event, so that someone from St. Xavier's could come to sit with Mikael for it. Father Pacioli really wanted to be there himself, and had hoped the exam could coincide with his first visit. The CEC had been clear that time was limited, but they had been flexible on exact dates, and the scheduling had been still in the works. A carrier's first exam, Father Pacioli had been informed, was a life-stage event. Something to be celebrated.  
"Yeah." Mikael said, quietly, "I didn't want to wait." Mikael swallowed. "It was OK - Blake went with me."  
Father Pacioli's heart ached a little for his son, who always tried so hard to be so brave, even when the world was terribly unfair to him in ways large and small.  
"We got you a little gift." he said, instead of expressing this. "Blake told us that was the tradition."  
Mikael reddened.  
"You didn't have to - "  
"We wanted to, Mikael." Father Pacioli said, wanting to put all of his love and protection and understanding into this single declaration to his son. "We love you, and so we wanted to."


	6. One Month.

The Wiltshire clock struck 7, the heavy clanging ringing throughout the Centre and signaling the start of the day. In the library, Mikael shut up the books he'd been poring over and stacked them on his desk. Breakfast started at 8, and if he walked quickly, he'd be able to shower and eat and still make it to the exam early. It couldn't hurt, he figured, to be early.

Blake came up to him as he was finishing his meal. The carrier was wearing a pale blue sweater today, and a dark blue natori. He sat down in the empty chair next to Mikael.  
"Hey! So are you ready for the big day?"  
Mikael shrugged; in truth, he was agonizingly nervous, but he didn't think he could just say so to Blake.  
"I'm fine. It's just a test, right?"  
Blake nodded.  
"Yeah! Yeah, exactly. And it's basically just like any other test you've taken in your lifetime. It's even easier, in fact! Because there's no right or wrong answers - we just want to get to know you!" Blake smiled brightly. "So just remember to be honest, to be open, and most of all to be careful! Your one-month assessment is important. Really important, because it helps us understand how you're progressing, and how far you have left to go."  
Mikael looked at the last bit of oatmeal in his bowl and decided to leave it.  
"OK. Right. I've got it. I'll be fine."  
Blake peered closely at him.  
"You sure?"  
Mikael nodded with a confidence he did not feel.  
"Positive."

~:~

Results from the one-month assessment exam were posted two days later, and Mikael went along with the rest of the new CEC arrivals to see them when they were posted. He checked for his ID number and traced the line across - there was no grade, only a note written in by hand: 'See Testing Office.'

The carrier at the front desk of the Testing Office was a rather testy redhead who kept checking the telephone screen as if hoping someone more interesting than Mikael would call in.  
"...so I came here, like it said? And I thought maybe someone would be expecting me, but I'm not really sure what the situation is, so I don't know if - "  
Mikael's nervous babbling was cut off by someone calling his name.  
"Carrier Pacioli?" A neat-looking officer in his forties had stepped out of a back office and was looking forward, at Mikael. He smiled warmly. "Why don't you come on back?"

The man introduced himself, settled Mikael into a seat, and then made a few phone calls which resulted in the room being inhabited, eventually, by Mikael, the man himself, and three other officers. They sat Mikael in a chair at the heart of a semi-circle and smiled solicitously at him.  
"So!" the first man began, "If we're all gathered, then why don't we go ahead and get started?"  
Nods of consent went all around.  
"OK. Mikael, you've obviously been invited here to talk because of your performance on the assessment exam."  
Mikael glanced around the room.  
"OK...yeah, I guess."  
An older man in a lab coat who was seated in the center of the group smiled brightly and peered at Mikael over the tops of his glasses.  
"Excellent. Now, what do you expect we want to talk to you about?"  
Mikael felt blindsided - he'd never been called into a room like this before. Even when he was young, if he'd done something wrong, Father Pacioli just talked to him about it - he didn't ask leading questions like this, and certainly not in a room of strangers.  
"I don't - I honestly don't know."  
The man's smile thinned and he nodded his head once.  
"Mm. I see. Well, do you recall what you wrote on your assessments, Mikael?"  
Panic was beginning to make his skin feel tight - had he written something wrong? Something offensive? Had someone copied him and now they thought he was to blame? Mikael tried to think over the essays - they had been short, he had answered the questions, he had been open and truthful - what was this about?

From the corner of his eye, Mikael noticed that one of the men not speaking was writing notes down on a notepad, and this seemed to raise the stakes of his answer. He swallowed.  
"Um, sort of. I don't really - I just answered the essays."  
The man in the lab coat stared evenly at him.  
"You just answered the essays." he repeated, his tone making it sound like a silly answer. Mikael nodded frantically.  
"I didn't - did I do something wrong?"  
The man leaned back in his chair and sighed deeply, then looked to the left at the man who had first brought Mikael in.  
"Well, Mikael," the man who had been writing notes chimed in, "Let's just...review some of your answers, shall we?"  
Mikael, certain that he didn't have a choice, nodded. The man smiled.  
"Very good. Let's see. For essay #1, the question was 'What do you believe the role of a carrier should be in our new society?'" he looked up at Mikael for confirmation and received a tentative nod, then continued. "And you started off, 'I believe that the natural role of a carrier is as an equal contributor to the spiritual, economic, intellectual and cultural construct of a free society. Despite the _oppressive disparity_ which now exists to suppress access to fair and equal education and participation, limiting many avenues of societal contribution for carriers, I nevertheless have faith that great strides will be made in the future to encourage us to share equally in the rebuilding of the Great Society.'"

Mikael listened intently, waiting for the other shoe to drop - for the words he heard back to be unfamiliar, not his own, wrong somehow. Nothing came. A thick, menacing silence was heavy in the room. Mikael fidgeted.  
"Oh..OK."  
The man who had read from the paper stared at Mikael, then set the page down and smoothed it on his notepad.  
"Mikael," he asked, in a venomously innocent voice, "Was that supposed to be a threat?"  
Bewilderment and fear blanketed every other thought in Mikael's mind.  
"No! No, absolutely not! I wasn't - I wasn't trying to threaten anyone." he replied frantically, only now understanding the severity of the situation he was in. "I wasn't trying to - I was just saying."  
"You were just saying what, Mikael?" the old man in the lab coat demanded.  
Mikael glanced around for a friendly face, but everyone was staring at him with equal parts non-emotion and hostility.  
"I was just...I wasn't saying anything. I just - I don't know why - I just wrote what I thought, I thought we were supposed to just be honest, Blake said I had to just be honest, I didn't know that I was - I wasn't trying to threaten anyone!" He realized he was sounding guiltier by the minute, but he couldn't just say nothing, could he? He couldn't just take the blame and let them punish him for something he hadn't done! It wouldn't be right, and if there was one thing Mikael knew, it was that you had to do what was right - even if there were terrible consequences. God would open their hearts if Mikael spoke the truth, and they would understand.

There was another silence in the room, and then the man who had first brought Mikael in smiled a little and broke it.  
"Well, we appreciate that at least, Mikael. Your honesty. We do always want our carriers to be honest." he shook a jovial finger at Mikael. "Don't lie to us!" he grinned. "Because we will **always** find out."  
Mikael paused. Was that supposed to be a threat?  
The man continued.  
"But there can be such a thing, Mikael, as a little bit too much honesty." he flicked his eyes down over a chart in his lap - Mikael's chart, he realized. "So I see that you're rather well-educated, Mikael? By...the Good Brothers of St. Xavier?"  
Mikael swallowed and nodded - the oppressive feeling had lifted in the room, just slightly, just enough for him to feel able to breathe again.  
"Yes. I grew up there."  
The man nodded.  
"Mmm. Yes, I see. And...what kind of books did you read while you were there, Mikael?"  
The man asked the question so innocuously that Mikael sensed a trap, but wasn't sure how to escape it.  
"Um. Religious books, mostly." he tried for a jokey smile but missed, "The Bible. The Qu'ran. The Apocryphal texts. Some political books, too - on government and history. Um, that's mostly it."  
"Really." the man who had the notepad interrupted. "That's it?"  
Mikael glanced back over at the first man. Don't lie to us. echoed in his head. We will always find out. He swallowed. It was a sin to lie.  
"Some other stuff, too." he mumbled. "Science stuff. Math."

The man from the beginning spoke again, only this time his voice had a new tone to it - a leading one, as if he were trying to lure Mikael gently along on a string.  
"Well, I bet just those subjects kept you busy, didn't they?" he smiled. "So busy I don't think you ever had time to read anything else, did you?"  
Mikael felt so confused that he just shrugged.  
"I guess...not?"  
"No societal studies?" an anonymous voice asked.  
The man from the beginning laughed.  
"I am certain," he said, looking directly at Mikael, "That he hardly ever had time to read societal studies."  
"I presume he's never read any of that antiquated gender literature either," the old man interjected, slowly turning a pen in his hand. "Nothing from, say, the latter parts of the 19th century? Or the 20th, even? Nothing, I'm sure, from that...era." by the way he said the last word, it was clear what he thought of it.  
Mikael looked from face to face, understanding but not understanding, feeling like a little animal being chased in from the sanctuary of outside to the mouth of the cage...but where to go? Where else to turn? They were all around him...Mikael shook his head.  
"No." he said, quietly, "Not that I can recall."  
The man from the beginning smiled broadly.  
"Good." he said, then, indulgently, "Father Pacioli told us you were a bright one."  
The old man in the lab coat nodded approvingly.  
"Very clever little thing."  
"Absolute darling."  
"Wonderfully pretty, at least."  
Mikael slowly started to get the feeling they were mocking him. His cheeks colored.  
"Am I - am I free to go now?" he asked, afraid to challenge them but wanting so badly to be alone.  
The man in the blue shirt smiled.  
"Of course. Send our apologies to Blake for keeping you so long." he scribbled something on a sheet of paper, then ripped it off and handed it to Mikael. Mikael hesitated to take it, and the man raised an eyebrow. "Your makeup exam date." The man smiled, predatorily, and added, "I'll see you there."


	7. Two Months.

“Hello, Mikael. I was waiting for you to call. I’ve just been going through the books of medicinals. Do you remember where we put the short volume on watercress?”  
As always, his father’s voice was like water to Mikael’s parched soul. F. Pacioli waited patiently at the other end of the line for an answer. None came immediately, then, as a torrent, rushed:  
"I need to make a confession, Father."  
At his desk in the small study that faced the back gardens of the house, ever shaded by the red alders, Father Pacioli stopped what he was doing and spun his chair away from the view.  
"You may confess." he said, gently.  
Mikael bit his lip and glanced over his shoulder; a habit. He'd passed his one-month eval and no longer required a chaperone to monitor his phone conversations.  
"I've lied, Father." Mikael played with the long, thin cord of the telephone and worked his jaw for a moment. "I - they _made_ me - no." he stopped himself and frowned. "No one made me. I had a choice, and I lied, Father. For my retake of my one-month evaluation, I wrote a wholly untruthful thing. I - I was afraid, and I was weak, and so I did only what they wanted me to do. I didn't - I didn't resist. I didn't speak the truth. I didn't advocate for justice. I only...lied." Mikael's voice was strained by the end of his statement. "I betrayed the other carriers, and I betrayed myself. And I'm sorry."

Father Pacioli was silent for a moment.  
"Mikael," he began, slowly, "Change is not always made with bright displays; there are no fireworks when justice is done. Goodness comes into the world through simple, consistent action - the hard work of manifesting God's love day after day after day."  
Mikael was dissatisfied with this response.  
"But I was weak, Father. I should have - I should have said something more."  
Mikael had yet to understand himself, Father Pacioli realized. His son could not see what he and the other brothers saw so plainly - that Mikael had been born with a fighter's heart, and that all the work of St. Xavier's had only been to place a head of virtue atop it.  
"God loves us, always. In our weak moments and strong. But I do not believe this was a weak moment for you; I believe that it was very, very difficult and that you were very, very strong." Mikael was silent. In his office at St. Xavier's, Father Pacioli passed his hand in the air in the shape of the cross. "You are forgiven, Mikael."

Some measure of peace came into Mikael's heart, although it still ached. But what had he wanted to hear? What had he called for? Permission to martyr himself? That would have been the easy way out. He turned his attention to the conversation again, where Father Pacioli was asking him for news about his life.

"Nothing is different," Mikael answered, feeling sullen and ungrateful. "I miss St. Xavier's."  
Father Pacioli frowned.  
“Settling in is still a challenge?” he asked as gently as he could, hesitant to make one statement or the other for fear of triggering a quarrel with his son. Mikael disliked speaking of the Centre. At best, he seemed to find it all horribly embarrassing; at worst, rather dramatically painful. Hormones, the doctors had told his father when he'd made discreet inquiries about it. Don’t take it personally - he doesn’t mean it.  
“I mean - “ Mikael hesitated, and Father Pacioli realized then that it was not in Mikael’s words where he found truth, but in his silence - in those frightened, creeping-mice pauses that he placed between words, as an animal on whom a searchlight had abruptly been shined. This silence was a serious silence; it was the unintentional breed that were birthed unwittingly from deep thought. “I mean that everyone is not...kind here.”  
“The administrators?”  
“The other carriers.”

In sending Mikael away, this had been Father Pacioli’s greatest worry. Not that his son - who he loved and had trained up well and taught carefully the meaning of words like ‘patience’ and ‘obedience’ - would be singled out cruelly by his sovereigns, but that he might be targeted for his inexperience by his peers.  
“I don’t think they mean to be malicious,” Mikael began, cautiously. “I think they're just utterly careless. But I hear them talk.”  
“About what?” F. Pacioli asked, quietly, wanting not to step too firmly on this tender expulsion of pain.  
“Me.”  
There was silence.  
“Why you, Mikael?”  
“I don’t know.” he blurted, honestly, then took a moment to revise his answer. “Because people like to talk. Because I’m there, I suppose." he swallowed. "Because I don’t have many friends.”  
“Mikael, you promised me that you would try - “  
“I am trying!” Mikael snapped. “But I just - not every day. I can’t do it every day.”

Father Pacioli listened and felt his heart swell with hurting and love for Mikael, who, even at twenty-six, retained that wary, wild heart that had won him a permanent place at St. Xavier’s so long ago.

“Well,” he said, slowly, “All of us do what we can. We can only do what we can.”  
Across the line, Mikael exhaled.  
“Well. I suppose it’s not enough.” 

Then the carrier paused again, and it was one of those serious pauses, those open pauses, those pauses that say I am in pain and cannot fill this space between us.

“I just don’t want to do it anymore.” he said, finally, and because Father Pacioli was his father, he could tell that there were almost tears in Mikael’s eyes. F. Pacioli sensed that this was not the time to probe - answers would come. “I’m scared.” Mikael admitted, more openly than his father had expected. “I’m afraid I can’t do this.”

It was at times like these that Father Pacioli wished desperately to be granted the gift of insight. Why should this happen to Mikael, his sweet Mikael? Why should this happen to the only child of St. Xavier’s, to the desperate orphan who had come in from the rain with nothing but the clothes on his back and his frightened heart, and brought sunshine to the darkest days at the abbey? Why him? Why Mikael?

Father Pacioli quieted his heart; these things were not his to know. These things were in the hands of the Father, and no one else.

Mikael rubbed anxious eyes with the back of a scribbled-on hand. Take G-7 Form to Dawkins 102, its forgotten assignment read. Father Pacioli mulled over his thoughts for long, silent minutes while a robin picked at an insect at the roots of his rhododendrons.

“Mikael, what can I do?” he asked, finally. “In what way may I help you?”  
Mikael rubbed his knuckles together, liking the bumpy feeling that distracted him from the sickness in his belly.  
Get me out, he wanted to say, but that wasn’t kind; that wasn’t kind and it wasn’t fair, because his father had no more wanted to leave him there than Mikael had wanted to stay. There was no greater freedom on the other end of the line; Father Pacioli was as trapped in this as he was.

“That’s alright, Father.” he said instead, his voice suddenly restored to its robust normality. “There’s nothing I would ask you to do. Just listening is enough.”  
Father Pacioli heard this, and felt a concern that he did not express.  
“Well,” he said, slowly, acceding to a point on which they did not agree, “I am always here to listen.”

~:~

"So how's the Centre's new experimental strategy thing going?" Thad asked, discreetly poking the oddly-colored slab of meatloaf on his plate. Blake returned with a dish of something green and served that onto Thad's plate, then his own.  
"The stratification test-out." Blake corrected. "It's going OK, I guess." the blond carrier shrugged. "I mean, the point has been to draw clearer distinctions between the levels of authority in the Centre; I don't really see how that's so different from what we were doing before, but I suppose it's supposed to make them feel closer to each other, prevent them from allying with guards and administrators, and reduce corruption on the administrative end by keeping them from granting so many favors. I think it just makes the administrators seem a bit more distant and...intimidating to the boys."  
Thad raised an eyebrow. Blake placed a bowl of bread on the table and took a seat across from his husband.  
"And that's supposed to help? Intimidating them even more?"  
Blake's lips tightened.  
"Prediction models say a thirty percent reduction in behavioral audits and administrative conflicts is in order." Blake spread a napkin out on his lap. "We'll see in the spring, I suppose."

Thad mimicked him, then sliced his meatloaf.   
"And what about your little troublemaker? The one who keeps getting the pre-audits?"  
Blake blinked quickly.  
"Mikael. He's...adjusting."  
"The audits are supposed to help with that?" Thad asked, skeptically.  
"The _pre-audits_ are supposed to make him more invested in his growth and development. Give him a little taste of the consequences before he goes down the wrong path. Help him adjust more quickly.”  
Blake shrugged around a mouthful of green whatever-it-was and chewed slowly, not looking at his husband.  
"Whatever makes the process easier for them..."  
Thad took a bite of the meatloaf and decided that it was at least better than Blake's previous attempt.  
"And do you think that?" he pressed. "That it makes the process easier?"  
Blake shrugged, and in a careless moment, answered honestly.  
"Nothing can really make it easier."  
Thad paused in his meal and looked closely at his carrier wife’s face. There were lines there that he hadn’t seen before; there was a gauntness in the cheeks that worried him. Blake seemed embarrassed, either by his words or by the scrutiny, and so afterwards, he added, "But I don't know; I’m not a carrier therapist.”

Thad ate his meatloaf and didn't press any further on that topic. There were other, equally uncomfortable points to be brought up.  
"Your stepmom called."  
"About dinner? I know - he called me, too."  
Thad took a forkful of green goo and tried to gauge Blake's mood and reaction to this.  
"And?"   
Blake sighed.  
"And what? We're going, obviously. It's not like there are many real options."  
Thad agreed with a shrug.  
"We could make excuses."  
"It's better not to lie to my father." Blake responded quickly, automatically. Thad was silent for a moment, then suggested, cautiously,  
"We could say you're feeling sick."  
Blake froze mid-bite and set his fork back down on his plate.  
"No." he said, taking a drink of water. "No, I don't want them to think that."  
"Why not?"  
"Because it's not true, that's why not. And I don't see the point in getting them all excited, getting their hopes up..."  
"It's been a year." Thad pointed out. "I'm pretty sure their hopes are already up."  
Blake flushed a dark red.  
"It's not…right."  
"OK." Thad said, and drank some of his wine. Then, after a moment, added, "But it could be right, couldn't it? Soon."  
Blake didn't say anything, but Thad noticed he seemed to find it difficult to finish the rest of his meal.


	8. June 13: Saint Anthony of Padua.

"Mikael!" Niccolo cried and sat up in alarm as soon as he took one look at his roommate’s face,"What's the matter?”  
Mikael shook his head and headed straight for their shared bathroom instead of answering. Nick abandoned the magazine he'd been reading to follow him.  
"Come on, Mikael - talk to me, handsome - what's wrong?"  
Mikael went into the clean, cool room and felt insantly better. He put the plug into the white basin and watched it fill with hot, clean water. Still waiting for an answer, Nick hovered anxiously at his shoulder.  
"Did someone say something to you? Did someone hurt you? What happened?!"  
Mikael splashed water over his face and breathed in the steam for a few seconds. The water felt like a purification; a little baptism to wash away a day of sin. In the watery image of himself in the sink, Mikael promised to regain his composure.

By the time he spoke, Nick was about ready to burst with anxiety. The truth felt too intimate; too private. So Mikael picked a half-truth to show instead.  
"Horace.” was all he said, and Niccolo’s face grew dark.  
“Again?”  
Mikael shrugged, then splashed more water on his face, hastily, to cover the fact that he was still crying.  
Nick put a comforting hand on Mikael’s back.  
“Come on. Don’t worry about him. He’s just an asshole, that’s all.”  
Mikael reached for a cloth and dipped it in the water; in the reflection, his hands trembled. Nick’s brow furrowed. “He’s just trying to intimidate you.”  
“Well, it works.”  
Niccolo made a dismissive sound.  
“You just have to get past it. Don’t listen to them. Don't let them get to you. If you let some low-level jackass like Horace get to you, then you're a fool.”  
Absurdly, it was this statement which hurt him the most of all.  
“Thanks, Nick." he said, flatly, and his roommate sighed.  
"I didn't mean - come on, Mikey. I'm just saying don't let him get to you. He picked a fight with you last month and look who got an orange flag for that - you. He's little fish, and you just keep letting him rile you up."

They stood in silence for a long minute. Nick looked sadly at his roommate's reflection in the mirror. Mikael had shadows under his eyes and his hair was thinning. His hands still had a slight shake to them; a lingering effect of the zap he'd gotten in answer to an open letter he'd written in his civics class regarding suppression and sexuality. He had a bruise on the rise of his collarbone where he'd been reeducated by the guards last week after a few stray comments about the fascist nature of their harassment. His skin had an unappealing gray pallor - he hadn't been eating well.  
"You can't afford to get more riled up, Mikey."

~:~

Dee found him later, in the library.  
“Hey, Foxy.” he said, softly, peeking around the corner to the familiar spot where Mikael liked to spend his evenings. The expected stacks of books were piled around the plush armchair in which the young monk usually sat, and the tall reading lamp was lit, providing a sliver of light against the darkness outside of the windows. Mikael looked up and gave his friend a wan smile.  
“Hey.”  
Dee sighed and came forward, waiting a few moments before explaining himself.  
“Blake sent me. You know that, right?”  
This stung Mikael, because if he had been at St. Xavier’s, George would have come looking for him all on his own; without prompting or provocation.  
“Oh.”  
"You missed dinner, buddy.”  
Mikael shrugged and turned back to his reading.  
“Wasn’t hungry.”  
Dee’s eyes widened and he sighed heavily, then came forward and sat down heavily on the fat leather ottoman that Mikael had pushed to the side.  
“Doesn’t work like that. And you know it. What’s going on?”  
Mikael shook his head; the loose braid that Nick had tied for him just that morning came loose on one side and scattered his hair.  
“Nothing. Had a bad day. Wanted to read instead.”  
“What about your meds?”  
“Don’t need ‘em.” Mikael answered, stubbornly. “Just needed to read for a while.”  
Dee sat silently for a while, then spoke up.  
“They’re looking for you, Mikael.” he said, and his voice had a tone of sadness in it. “And they’re angry.”

A chill ran over Mikael’s skin, because there was something in the room just then - something prescient and frightening and darkly stated. He looked into his friend’s eyes, and the feeling intensified.  
“Who’s looking for me?”  
Dee squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, then opened them and looked sympathetically at Mikael.  
“The rehabilitators.”


	9. June 23: Saint John Fisher.

Demen was the name of the doctor who examined him upon his exit from the weeklong Re-Education Session. Mikael recalled this because for a stupid, sick, brief moment, when his leader-officer had said ‘Demen is here,’ Mikael had heard ‘Damon’ and had a foolish moment of hope - that Brother Damon was here, that he had come from Saint Xavier’s, and at last Mikael would be going home. Of course, it was no such thing.

The doctor had been efficient, but distant, had asked Mikael a multitude of questions, and had checked all of the boxes on the 4 pages of doublesided forms he’d been given to fill out. Mikael had sat quietly, out of the reach of his leader-officer, and done his best to appear compliant.

Compliance, after all, was what the whole game was about. Mikael had been at the Wiltshire CEC for two months and twenty days, and it had taken him almost as long to figure that out. It had been thirty days since he’d had visitors; that had been the first privilege he’d lost. Twenty-two days since he’d been allowed full-campus freedom. Nineteen since he’d had free afternoons. Fifteen since he’d been allowed anywhere near a telephone. Fourteen since the inspectors had arrived at 6 o’clock in the morning and taken away all of his books. And then, ten days ago, they had come and waited outside of his classroom to take him away, too. 

The week had been uncomfortable, but not hellish - he had been given scrubs to wear, assigned a 10’ x 12’ room, and subjected to an alternating schedule of invasive questions and oppressive demands. Mikael had been through worse, and said as much. Even 15 years of comfort at Saint Xavier’s didn’t erase the pain of his earliest days, and as ever, Mikael knew he had within him a tremendous capacity to survive. 

Survive, but not comply. 

Mikael did nothing at another’s behest. When he had first arrived at the abbey, it had taken Father Pacioli three days to get the boy to come to him; it was six weeks before he would eat at a table with the rest of the brothers.

“Consistency,” he had overheard Father Pacioli telling a frustrated Brother Simon one evening when Mikael had stolen bread from the kitchen again and left crumbs under the large desk in the library, “Is the greatest teacher. Mikael is afraid that his life is impermanent; he is afraid that all we give him will be taken back when he least expects it. He doesn’t understand that we love him, and that he has a home now. But these things cannot simply be told to the boy; he would not believe you. They must be taught. And love can only be taught with patience and consistency. So forgive the bread; in time, he will learn.”

And Father Pacioli had been so consistent in his love for Mikael, and so consistent with his faith in God’s plan and his belief in the miracles that he felt certain would befall his small charge, that Mikael had learned, and he, too, had believed.

And what did Mikael believe in now? The fight. Only the fight.


	10. July 21: St. Lawrence of Brindisi.

“I see no good reason why we should keep feeding the little fucker.” 

Jerry Wolstone, the bespectacled man, snapped at the man seated in front of him. It was nearly midnight, and time was wasting before midnight struck and the 24-hour order on his acquisition became invalid. Then he’d have to go through the laborious paperwork process again, and if there was one thing Jerry Wolstone cared about eliminating, it was paperwork.  
“There’s no evidence of self-harm or mental instability, he’s been warned innumerable times, we’ve put him through the most expensive therapy this Centre is capable of - there just isn’t more that we’re willing to do.”  
The doctor sitting across from him, Demen, shook his head.  
“I won’t sign off on it.” he said. “I told them when I took this job that I wouldn’t and I won’t. It’s wrong.”  
Wolstone yanked his feet down from the desk and spun to face John Demen.  
“What’s wrong is how this criminal little upstart is inciting all kinds of bullshit in my clinic and my CEC. If he were an officer, he’d be dead by now.”  
“By gunshot, not...dismemberment.” Demen snapped back. “The answer is no.”  
“The answer,” Wolstone snapped, “Is _fuck you_ ” he picked the form up off of his desk and threw it forward at Demen. “I’ll find another doctor.”

~:~

John Demen was furious, choleric with rage and sick with the thought of what this place was doing to them and to him and to his whole goddamn country.  
Back to the East, he thought, that’s where I should go. Let the whole coast go to pot and head back to where things at least make a little sense. What’s out here for me, anyway? Just a bunch of gunslingers and butchers, and the wrong side of the ocean.

He passed the main door to the medical library.  
And bullshit research, he added, funded by sick fucks who want me to prove that the best option for everybody is for them to have a permanent fucking plaything.

He passed the swinging entrance doors to the carriers’ walk-in clinic, and was almost hit in the face by a red-faced young visitor, obviously a recent change, who stuttered awkwardly, then raced past him into the exam areas.  
And not a shot at reform in sight.

Demen made a left through the first set of secure doors into the psych unit; there was a shortcut through the juvenile psychology ward that would lead him to the back exit, closest to his parking lot.  
Third time I’ve had to replace the battery since I’ve been out here, he suddenly remembered, and was even more annoyed. Fucking mechanic hacks.

He turned right, then left, then for some bizarre reason, went through the first set of doors rather than the second and found himself face to face with the door to the Final Unit.  
Demen’s skin chilled, and he felt once again, more powerfully, that awful sense of sickness, that horror that reminded him that he was definitely in the wrong place, with the wrong people, doing something very, very wrong.

The door was red. This frightened him, for some reason - he wondered if that was its purpose: to frighten the carriers who walked (or were dragged) through this door, and no other, ever again. The thought brought a renewed wave of sickness.  
Kill them all, he wished abruptly, fervently. Why make them suffer? Just kill them all.

This was what he had walked away from; this was what he had refused. He never, never, ever wanted to see those doors open under his hand. How could any doctor - hell, any man? Anyone with a heart and a brain and two good legs to keep them moving in the other direction should turn away from a scene like this.

And what was the law of his profession? First do no harm. And yet, somehow, this had come to be…this most abominable, most horrible, most disgusting of the human darknesses - here. In a place of healing; in the temples of the desperate and ill. It was wrong. It was so awfully, incredibly, devastatingly wrong that he felt paralyzed in place with the thought of it. How many had gone from here? Sons, brothers, friends…all sent away by the man in the fucking glasses whose name Demen could never remember.   
Forget what I said before, Demen decided, Let the carriers all live. Just kill that man.

A commotion sounded from the dim hallway to his left, bringing the good doctor out of his haze, and he turned in time to see a gurney round the corner; a carrier was strapped to it, sedated but half-awake and struggling. Demen saw the body coming towards him as if in a trance, and before he knew what he was doing or saying, he had stepped forward and set a hand upon the side of the bed, flicked the brake down to halt its progress. The young officer nurse looked up, surprised, at his former superior.

“Doctor Demen, I thought you’d rescinded your involvement in this case.”  
Demen tilted his head, affected the same condescending air that the other doctors in his ward possessed.  
“And I thought nurses had limited clearance. Do you know something I don’t?”  
The nurse’s lips tightened ever so slightly, and his posture stiffened, but he stepped backward.  
“No, sir.”  
“Then if I have your approval, _soldier_ , I’ll be completing this case before the day is out.”  
Demen jerked the gurney slightly, just enough to throw the young man’s hand off of it, and the nurse took two steps away.  
“Yes, sir.”  
“In the meantime, report to the serology lab, would you? Doctor Ichor’s shorthanded.”  
“Sir, yes, sir.” the nurse responded, turned, and was gone.

Demen looked down into the face of the patient on the table, who was still wriggling, and although his eyes were unfocused and hazy, appeared to be squinting at that unspeakably red door.  
“Listen to me.” Demen began, and the patient moaned and tried again to resist. Demen trapped his face in both hands.  
“Listen to me!” he repeated, more urgently, then leaned close. There were no cameras in these hallways; the CEC wanted no record of what they did here. But anyone may still be listening. Demen whispered,  
“Say _nothing_ if you want to live.”

The patient peered at him for a long moment, his breathing labored by his gag, his muscles weak with the drugs. Then he nodded, and was silent.  
Demen wheeled him through the doors.


	11. July 22: Saint Mary Magdalene.

“I’m sorry,” the Doctor said, with sincere regret in his voice, “But this is the only way.”

The blade felt so smooth and so fast going in that Mikael felt almost-nothing; just a slipping of metal through skin and then that moment of horrible anticipation that one feels just before an inevitable fall, and then the searing, stinging, pain of his new wounds. He wanted to cry out, but the Doctor had already covered his mouth. 

Say nothing. he had instructed. Say nothing if you want to live.

Mikael stared in horror at his wrist, at the awful long open slit in it where his life was spilling out.

Demen shoved the scalpel firmly into Mikael’s other hand and squeezed the stunned carrier’s fingers around it., pressing them tightly. That done, he released him and stepped back. Blood was flowing thickly already, down the front of Mikael’s hospital robe and onto the crisp white blanket. An image of himself being rolled away, covered in death by that same white blanket, appeared suddenly in Mikael’s mind, and he wanted to scream. Demen did it for him, banging over a tray and shouting suddenly: 

“NO! CARRIER! NURSE! HE’S GOT MY SCALPEL - I NEED A CHAPERONE!” so loudly that he startled them both, and Mikael dumbly gripped the scalpel and there were footsteps and rushing and he started to feel a little woozy from everything and then the room was suddenly full of people, and all of them were angry.

Mikael began to lose his awareness, catching only snippets of the scene in which he played a central part. A chaperone wrested the scalpel from his hands; he struggled convincingly and nicked the thing’s arm. Unfazed, the machine regained power over him and took the tool away. Arms around him; he was being restrained. He was strapped to the gurney, and moving now; voices were speaking above him.  
“….tried to take his own life…self-harm…”  
“…Doctor, how could you drop protocol….”

Mikael could see only the ceiling, and was aware that they were moving quickly towards the emergency area of the infirmary. Away from the final passage room. Away from the blood-red door to nothingness.  
“…he’s made clean cuts, but deep…”  
“…change his charts. Can’t be sent to Rowe House now; supers’ll have our ass if we violate Code 3…and after midnight, too…”

He felt a warm buzzing inside of him that seemed to have no origin or explanation; at first, he feared it, but it began to feel overwhelming and surprisingly persuasive. He began to relax…then Demen was above him, assuring him as if he were a stranger.  
“….you’re going to make it…”

~:~

The next thing Mikael was aware of was waking, fearful, in a softly lit room in the psychological rehabilitation clinic. He tried to lift his left arm; it was handcuffed to the bed. His right arm ached; he caught sight of his bandaged wrist, felt ill and said as much. The chaperone beside him stirred and got up and called a nurse.

A short-haired carrier came and helped him to sit up and let him vomit into a bedpan; afterwards, they gave him a meal drink and told him to go back to sleep. He was in good hands now; they would wake him in the morning.

~:~

The phone call woke Father Pacioli (who had been having a dream of a ship at sea) on the third ring. On the fifth ring, he answered.  
“Pacioli. Saint Xavier’s.”  
“This is the Wiltshire Carrier Education Center,” the automated voice on the line responded. “You are being notified of a medical emergency. Your presence is requested immediately at the Wiltshire CEC. An envoy has been dispatched to retrieve you. The envoy should arrive within the hour.”  
Father Pacioli stared numbly at the receiver.  
“What’s happened?!” he demanded.  
“Please present your microchipped identification card to the driver at the time of arrival. Thank you for your time.” the message continued, then paused before repeating: “You are being notified of a medical emergency…”  
“WHAT’S HAPPENED?!” Father Pacioli, fully awake now, his heart pounding in his chest and his lungs aching, shouted at the unyielding operator.

There was a muted click on the line, then a distinctly non-automated voice interrupted the call.  
“Rafaele Pacioli?”  
“Who is this?” the elder man demanded, even as he was flicking on the light beside his bed and moving to sit up. “Who’s called me?”  
“My name is Demen, and I don’t have much time. You must come; I’ve called the car. Everything is going to be alright - Mikael is going to be fine. But you must come now.”


	12. July 23: Saint Bridget.

The door creaked open behind him. Mikael tried to keep very still. 

Father Pacioli took two steps into the room and stopped. The air was thick in here, he decided. Too thick. Too cut off, too isolated. The air of a quarantine room. He stepped forward, towards the thin figure stretched out in the bed. Mikael did not flinch; he barely drew breath.

Closer, Father Pacioli could see over the young man's shoulder, spied the bandages that covered both wrists. Mikael lifted one hand to scrub at his eyes; the rustling of cloth broke the silence. The elder man stepped up to the bed. Gently, he reached over and grasped one of Mikael's wrists. The young man did not move in response to this. Father Pacioli's thumb stroked over his son's bandages.  
"This is a sin, Mikael." he said, gently, his tone detached.  
Mikael sniffled a little and pulled his wrist away.  
"I know. I'm sorry."  
Fr. Pacioli seated himself on the bed, pulling the blankets taut over Mikael's legs, outlining the thinness of thighs and hips. The older man saw this and sighed.  
"I love you, Mikael." he reached out to lay a hand on the quivering side. "I don't want to lose you."  
Tears flowed freely from Mikael by now, and he rubbed at his eyes with a white-gauzed wrist.  
"I'm sorry." he repeated, unsure what else to say.

Father Pacioli reached out to his son, ran a hand over the hair that had grown long since he'd last seen the young man. It felt slippery, unwashed.  
"We all love you. You're not alone, you know."  
Mikael worked to keep from shaking. Tears came, but were unnoticed - they appeared so regularly now that he accepted them as the norm; in the brief periods when he was composed, his eyes felt dry and itchy.   
"I'm sorry." he repeated.  
Father Pacioli shook his head.  
"It's alright, Mikael. It's alright. We all forgive you. Everyone does."  
Mikael shook his head. Everything felt gray and confusing.  
"I don't - I mean I don't want to - "  
The older man shushed him.  
"Mikael. It's OK. You're here now, my boy. You're here with us, aren't you?"  
"Yes."  
"And you're going to stay with us, won't you?"  
"Ye - yes."  
Father Pacioli nodded, patted the joint of hip and waist that had also grown thin.   
"We love you, Mikael. God loves you."   
Mikael just trembled and was quiet.

"But we've got a lot of work to do now. You know that, don't you?" Mikael nodded. Fr. Pacioli pressed on. "And we are going to do it. Together. We will take things one step at a time, every day, until you are all Mikael again. Until you are yourself again, whole."  
Mikael nodded and tried to keep up.


	13. July 27: Blessed Antonio Lucci

Breakfast - on Mikael’s first day off of the pasty, gruel-colored meal drinks - consisted of juice, a mug of warm red tea, and some sort of gelatin mold that Father Pacioli had picked out in the dining facility. The older man arrived just after Mikael’s bath at 8, bearing a tray full of food items, and drew a chair close to his recovering son’s bedside.

“Now,” F. Pacioli said, making a grandiose gesture that reminded Mikael of his childhood and feeling warm and enveloped and at home, “We eat, we eat, we eat. Bless the food, Mikael. Then mangia.” Mikael spared a glance for the on-duty nurse, who had paused in the doorway of his room to observe. Father Pacioli was dividing their plates. “Eggs for me. The eggs here are very good, Mikael. If you like, you can try some of mine, although I know they’ve said to keep you on simple foods for now. Nothing salty. No cured meats. Although….” Father Pacioli leaned in to whisper conspiratorially to Mikael, “I’ve snuck you in some salmon jerky. Father Wakimoto’s. Homemade.”

Surprisingly, the treat actually appealed to Mikael. His gaze flickered up, interested, then back down again immediately. He reached for the gelatin and took a spoonful. The assigned nurse, still observing from the doorway, watched him swallow it down, then left.

Father Pacioli talked a bit more, then - about the summer crops, and about the rain at home, and about how the old shed had finally collapsed, and that George and Brother Simon would be working together to rebuild it. Mikael’s gaze flickered up again, involuntarily, at the mention of his old friend, and Father Pacioli did not let this pass him by.  
“George is well, as well - he sends his regards and of course, his love. He tells me he’s making you something - carving it, so I suppose it will be some kind of token. He’s been carving a lot of animals lately, so I hope you’ve room in your heart for another of his little wooden birds.”  
Mikael gave a faltering smile.  
“One of the barn dogs was sick a few weeks ago, you know.” F. Pacioli went on, “The little brown one with the short leg. Lima, I think you called her. But George got her all fixed up down the road - in exchange for half a bushel of blueberries, of course.” Father Pacioli chuckled to himself. “Although I don’t see what that doctor sees in our blueberries; he’s always - “  
Becoming suddenly aware that something beyond his left shoulder had captured Mikael’s attention, Father Pacioli cut himself off, and turned.

There was a man in the door; one with dark eyes, greying hair, and an inscrutable expression. He wore summer grays and the shoulder boards of a rear admiral. He seemed out of place where he stood, and neither Mikael nor Father Pacioli himself seemed to recall the exact moment of his appearance. He looked intensely at Mikael for another long moment, then inclined his head politely at Father Pacioli with a simple acknowledgement (“Father.”) and then was gone.

Mikael blinked after him, but said nothing. Father Pacioli also looked after him for a moment, cautious, but after a few minutes of nothing interesting, moved on.

~

“That carrier. Who was he?”  
The two nurses and the young emissary who had been charged with guiding the admiral around rushed forward to form a trailing half-circle around the man, struggling to keep up with the quickening pace as he moved farther down the hall.  
“Mikael Pacioli, sir.”  
“He’s beautiful. Got a noble look about him, too.”  
The nurses exchanged looks.  
“He’s damaged, sir.”  
“Damaged? Damaged how?”  
The admiral made a sharp right through the other hall of visiting rooms, peeking quickly into each, but not stopping as he had at Mikael’s.  
“Tried to off himself about a week ago. Still in recovery.”  
The admiral made a sound that indicated that he didn’t think much of that particular fact.  
“Just have to rehabilitate him, then. Get him back in working order. The man’s not damaged; he’s sick.”  
The emissary glanced, with some embarrassment, at the two nurses.  
“The carrier, you mean, sir.”  
The admiral halted, then turned slowly to face the younger man.  
“What’s your rank, son?” he asked, with deceptive mildness. The emissary, obviously realizing his error, began to stutter.  
“I’m - uh - it’s - I’m Hospital Corpsman Third Class, sir.”  
The admiral stared for long, quiet moments at the younger man. The two nurses edged back a step or two.  
“The man’s not damaged. He’s sick.” the admiral repeated.  
“Yes, sir.” the emissary responded immediately, ducking his head. The admiral lingered one moment longer, then was on the move again, speaking as he went.  
“As I said, let’s get him back in working order. He’d be a beautiful waste otherwise. He’s pretty enough for Dura Corps, truth told.” The Admiral looked thoughtful for a moment. “Look into that.” he instructed the first nurse, before moving onward through the juvenile ward. “I want to see him at the next arrangement event."


	14. July 30: St. Peter Chrysologus

Father Pacioli had stayed in the hospital with him for three more days. Three days of abbreviated meetings, question-and-answer sessions with Mikael's nurses (when they came), and increasingly frustrated requests to speak with the Director of Health, or at least an Auditor.  
Nothing had been effective.  
Whatever mysteries of paperwork and privilege were clogging the Carrier Health Care system must have all come to a head at once, and small fish like Mikael were left to flounder in stagnating waters.  
They had thus far received no timeline for release; no indication of the future directions of Mikael's treatment; no instructions for his convalescence beyond the usual 'Sit. Stay. Sleep.' Mikael and his father had begun to feel as if they were fighting a battle against one of the greatest ills of the world - sloth - and no one was giving any quarter.

And so, on the fourth day, Father Pacioli had risen early, kissed Mikael's forehead, and told him he was going to see an old friend of his - someone he hoped could help. He'd only be gone the length of the day, he'd promised - he'd be back before midnight.

~:~

Mikael was sitting in the common room of the psych ward, playing an uninspiring game of checkers with a chaperone, when the call came through.

Of course, Mikael wasn't aware of the call at first - having never even been aware that such things could occur, he would have been completely unable to predict the events leading up to or following such an event. All Mikael knew was that he was minding his own business and wondering whether to attack from the left or right, when suddenly the middle-aged Nurse Manager with the terribly practical haircut came bustling into the room, all business and comfortable shoes, and issued several hushed but urgent commands to the staff before approaching Mikael with great swiftness.

"Misser Pacioli? We'll need you to pack immediately." he said, and Mikael, startled, searched his voice for some hint of the disassociation that he'd heard in the voices of his previous executioners, but found none.  
This relaxed Mik, but only minutely; he had learned not to trust his instincts in these situations.  
"Why?" he asked, even as the chaperone began shutting down their game (which Mikael had been winning, for once) and preparing to move.  
"You've been transferred." the carrier said, simply, reaching down to take Mikael's arm. "To someplace better. So come, now - quick as a bunny, let's go."  
Mikael balked and pulled back.  
"Transferred where? Where are you taking me? Does my dad know? I want to speak with my father! And my PGL - Blake. Can we call Blake?" Mikael swallowed, trying to keep himself from panicking. Panic would do no good, he knew, when the CEC was on one of its unannounced jaunts through his life. "Where's my intake nurse?"  
The nurse manager made a frustrated snort.  
"Your father's been notified of your change in address, you have a new intake nurse now, and Blake will be available later to talk about all the rest. Now let's go, carrier - we're on a schedule."

Confused, but deciding that no one seemed furious with him, everyone was meeting his eyes, and after all, they couldn't be going to _that_ place if they'd already informed his father, Mikael went along.

~

Inside Mikael's room, the Nurse Manager stood impatiently in a corner and checked his watch while he watched the carrier pack his meager belongings into the dark blue, monogrammed travel bag that had appeared on the bed.

"We _don't_ want to keep Admiral Holly waiting, Carrier." the nurse manager said at last, breaking a silence that had previously been interrupted only by Mikael's occasional rifling of papers and clothes.  
From the wash table, where he was collecting the complimentary soaps, Mikael looked up.  
"Who's Admiral Holly?"  
The nurse manager gave Mikael a look that was beginning to cross from impatience to irritation.  
"He's the deputy director of the Dura Corps program."  
Mikael stared, blankly. The nurse manager rolled his eyes.  
"He's the man who ordered your transfer to Hylas House."  
Mikael furrowed his brow, and slowed (but did not stop) his movements.  
"Hylas House?"  
The nurse manager looked at Mikael as if considering for the first time the possibility that the young man might be even less stable than his original assessment had indicated.  
"Yes, Hylas House." the nurse sniffed, "It appears that Admiral Holly's selection criteria are more…generous than they once were. So let's just accept that you've gotten lucky, continue to pack our things, and plan to be excited and ask all our questions in the car."

Lucky, Mikael believed, was a relative term. Regardless, he hesitated only a second more before making a final sweep of the room and placing the last of his things into the navy canvas bag.

There wasn't much to pack, really - most personal items were prohibited in the Level 4 Ward, and although Mikael's risk level had been downgraded to a 3, he hadn't yet had his things delivered from the main CEC. All he had, really, were items of hygiene, a few clean shirts and underwear, a Bible, an old, red mechanical alarm clock, and the contraband package of Father Wakimoto's salmon jerky.

Nonetheless, he kept his movements slow and steady, taking his time loading up his items. There was no rush in leaving, he'd learned - the time for separation always came soon enough.

Mikael was able to reflect later that his reluctance to leave his room might had been an inspired moment of clarity on the part of his subconscious. This room was a proxy; in Mikael's mind it served as a representative of other, absent things, and somehow, in that moment, he'd known that when he left that room, he'd be leaving much more behind.


	15. August 3: Saint Peter Julian Eymard

He spent 24 hours in decontamination/transitional housing. Then his trip began.

Mikael's first fright came at the end the first leg of his trip, when Father Pacioli was delayed getting to the travel station to meet Mikael's convoy and the carrier began to sense a trap.  
  
His second fright had come at the beginning of the second leg, when he'd been loaded into a train and began to worry that he was going so far away he'd never see home again. Father Pacioli had been standing beside Mikael there, the both of them huddled close on the platform in one of the few spots of shade. He had hugged Mikael and kissed him and brought his bags from Wiltshire and a few things, all packed up, from Saint Xavier's.

 _More salmon jerky?_ Mikael had asked, as it had become their secret code phrase for A Very Good Thing, and Father Pacioli had caught his son's chin and brought him forward to touch their foreheads together.  
 _More salmon jerky._

Father Pacioli had spoken with his friend, as it turned out, and he'd heard good news for Mikael.  
 _Hylas House_ , the man had repeated, with reverence. _He'll be safe there. He'll be **happy** there._  
And after? Father Pacioli had wanted to ask, but he had only so many favors to use up and wanted to save them for more urgent matters. **_Thank you, Stephen,_ he'd said instead.**

~:~

The little convoy entered the large, round foyer of a building that had once been great and was doing its best to get back on its feet. Under the speckled kaleidescope light of a stained glass dome, Mikael took in the cool air and pleasant hush of the interior. 

The matron of the House greeted them. She had manicured nails and wore a well-made taffeta suit, done up in a subtle shade of pink that complemented her olive complexion and graying hair. When Mikael caught sight of her, she was standing by the large vase of flowers in the center of the entryway, with her hands both held at her back and her face in a relaxed, patient expression. Upon seeing him arrive, she smiled and stepped forward.

"Mikael, isn't it?" she inquired, gently, before clasping both of Mikael's hands in hers. The two guards at his side seemed to fall away, to disappear. Her skin was soft and she smelled of something sweet and complicated; in her careful hands, Mikael felt dirty and raw.   
"We are so pleased to have you." she said, urgently, squeezing his hands.   
Mikael felt ashamed, suddenly, and shied away. She released him. Mikael felt her absence.  
"Let's see you to your room." she said, and smiled.

~

Hylas House was nothing like Wiltshire. Hylas House was nothing like any place Mikael had ever been before. 

Setting a brisk pace, the two of them passed from the foyer into the hallway, trotting along antique wooden floors that creaked and groaned beneath long strips of fanciful rugs. Mikael blinked at the carpets; at the walls, richly painted above their wainscoting; at the patterns in the ceiling. It was all infinitely complex, and yet somehow soothing...pleasing. Like looking at the garden from Brother Damon's window. Serene. 

The matron paused at the juncture of two hallways; tucked into a nook in the wall was a small occasional table that held a book and dip-ink pen.  
"You must sign in." she said, indicating the book with a wave of one delicate hand. "It's tradition. And a little something for posterity."  
She smiled - a sincere smile, of pride, perhaps? Or affectionate memories - Mikael couldn't be sure. He felt compelled to do as she said.  
"There we are," she said, helpfully. "Just your name and where you've come from. Oh, and your date. Mustn't forget your date."  
Mikael tried to sign without touching the pages of the book, afraid of dirtying its ivory sheets.

They turned down the hallway opposite the book and went several yards; at length, Mikael glanced back over his shoulder. He was surprised to see a chaperone, following them at some distance, balancing six bags. Even the chaperones seemed different here, Mikael reflected. Less invasive, somehow. Smaller.

Sunlight broke the library-quiet feel of the hallway, and their odd little caravan passed two broad double doors. Mikael peeked inside and went still. The room was a dining room - a _true_ dining room. Mikael's heart lifted and took flight; he'd had nothing but the cold tray meals of the Rehabilitation Wing and the rushed, packed-in cafeteria dinners of Wiltshire for too long. Without realizing it, he'd missed real meals - those times when all the brothers sat down at the endless feast table and the room was filled with warmth and breath and laughter and sharing. Honest eating, Brother Damon would have called it. Honest eating of real food.

The Hylas dining hall had flowers everywhere: adorning each leaf of the massive dining table in fat grey vases and spilling out from bowls on side tables in lily-petal cascades. There were windows everywhere, too - twelve in all, and each of them four meters tall and finished with wide ledges and graceful archways. The sunlight shone on the dents and crags in the surface of the hardwood dining table. This was a place well-used, Mikael realized. A place well-loved.

The most minor of the horrors of Wiltshire were also blessedly absent here; there were no bent chairs or rickety metal tables that rattled trays and spilled glasses of milk. There were no check-in lines or noisy heaters that kept the food warm through the long lunch and dinner hours. There was no large, ringing bell that signaled the end of one period of the day and beginning of another, bustling hassled diners out of the d-fac and back into the hallways. In fact, at Hylas House, there seemed to be no bells at all.

"I have always loved the Great Hall," the matron began, her words coming from just over his right shoulder. Mikael half-turned to catch a glimpse of her, and was surprised to see that her features were softened with love and memory.  
"Lady Elizabeth had it built to host her parties, you know. That was before the Great War -- a long time ago to you young people, but not so long to me. I think the room still sings of her. The flowers are hers. She insisted on fresh flowers, every day, when she was alive."   
The matron stepped up to Mikael's side. "But the flowers and the Hall will wait for you. Your roommate, flitting-about thing that he is, might not. Shall we see your new home?"

~:~

The room he'd been assigned in the manse was large and faced the East. In the mornings, there were sunrises and birdsongs to wake him, and in the evening, the night chatter of leaves rustling in the wind. His roommate was a quiet, fine-boned carrier with dark, roguish curls and blue eyes who kept mostly to the outdoors but was friendly enough to Mikael when they happened to share a space.

The main building was a former private home, and although Mikael knew this, he found it impossible to imagine anyone living here alone, even before the wars. They would be always lost, Mikael thought. One would always be lost in a place this large.

Despite the initial promises/threats that he'd be expected to keep up with his academics exactly as he would have at Wiltshire, Mikael found his course plan had been near-completely rewritten. Although he was still required to attend courses that would meet the minimum CEC regulations, most of his day was listed as 'Elective Studies'.

Elective Studies! That lovely, blessed term that covered all manner of delights and sins. Mikael had been cynical at first, not sure what he'd ever _elect_ to learn from CEC drones, but then he'd had a look at that quarter's course list - a simple affair posted inside the matron's office - and had practically salivated with anticipation. 

Standing now in front of the corkboard on which said list was posted, Mikael read through and nearly swooned again: French Literature in Context; North American Architectural Styles of the 20th Century; Sociology of the Neo-Gothic Era; Gender and Religion in the Modern Era (Reading Lecture); Musical Literacy II...  
  
Mikael glanced down at his notepad. He'd carefully copied down the dates and times of the most interesting courses, and was hoping for no conflicts. It was in such a state - distracted, contented, thoughtfully perusing the list - that Mikael was when a movement to his left alerted him: someone had come up beside him. 

"Hello."  
The face that greeted him was unfamiliar, and Mikael felt an instant desire to shrink away. He shut that feeling out - he was no longer in that dark place of red doors and cold white lab coats; he was in Hylas now. He was in his new home.  
"Hello." the face tried again. "I'm Jaden."  


Jaden was a carrier in his early thirties who, when Mikael examined his face again, seemed vaguely familiar but was still unidentifiable. Mikael furrowed his brow. Was this the carrier whom his roommate had pointed out the day before in a whisper?   
_That's him; he got here just 24 hours after you. A personal request. He belongs to the Admiral's son._

All Mikael knew of him from personal observation was that he wore nothing but natoris, never braided his wild, dark hair, and seemed to be perpetually amused at some joke that lay just beyond everyone's understanding.

"Choosing a new future?" Jaden asked, a slight grin tilting the side of his mouth. Mikael frowned, confused by the apparently random statement. "I haven't decided yet, myself." he added, shifting his weight so that he stood contrapposto on his left and gazed thoughtfully at the board. "Still browsing."  
Then the carrier brightened, and a bit of mischief seemed to come into his eyes.  
"But it's not time to choose October classes yet anyway. Have you chosen Groups yet? Those run on a rolling basis, you know - you can start immediately, if you want."  
Mikael glanced sidelong at him, then back at the board.  
"I may try my hand at the gardening group."  
Jay raised an eyebrow.  
"Gardening? Sounds dirty." he said, the only indication of irony in the momentary uptick in his grin.  
Mikael shrugged.  
"It's what I like. It reminds me of home."  
At this, Jaden turned and fixed Mikael in a stare not unlike that of a leopard, momentarily captivated by the movement of something just beyond its reach.  
"Home." he said, thoughtfully. "And where's that, Mikael?"  
Mikael hesitated, at first, to answer.  
"North of here. Saint Xavier's."  
Another momentary rise in Jaden's grin, then:  
"Ah. An educated man, then."  
Mikael inexplicably felt his face heat.  
"And what about you?" he asked, suddenly feeling it his right to demand answers of this stranger who had made an incursion into his space and his temporary sanctuary. "Where do you come from?"  
Jaden gazed at him for a long beat, then replied.  
"Chicago."  
Mikael blinked, surprised.  
"The last standing city in the central west." he blurted, then wished he hadn't.  
Jaden nodded. Then, in a softer voice, replied:  
"Though not standing any more."

There was a shared silence between them, and in it they were both lost in the reflections that come with catastrophe on the greatest scale - the unending inquiries, the instantaneous reversal to a place and time long gone; the evocation of the feelings of that moment, of the heat and the fear and the cold, firm brass of reality.

"I'm sorry." Mikael answered, reflectively.  
"Don't be." Jaden responded. "We were lucky. We were the bones. The sickness came to us last."  
In the quiet that followed, Mikael reflected again to himself that 'luck' was relative.

Jaden threw his weight again, sticking the opposite hip out and resting an elbow on it. In the afternoon light, he was half-shaded, and had that look about him of perfect androgyny that was so popular with all the carriers (and moreso with the officers). He was slimmer than Mikael, and had haunted gray eyes that he lined every day with cosmetic ink until they stood out against the darkness. This, Mikael supposed, was meant to give him an exotic look.

"So - Gardening?" Jaden asked, obviously interested in moving out of his own memories. "That's your choice?"  
"Gardening." Mikael assented.  
Jaden mused for a moment, then smiled at Mikael.  
"Well, it's mine too. We shall be good friends, won't we?"


	16. August 7: Saint Clare

August was planting season, Mikael had always been told.

Brother Agostino had reminded him of this, just as often as he had reminded Mikael to shield tender buds from danger - sun, bugs, and thievery - to check for signs of frost, disease, or damage, and to thicken the soil with scraps collected from Brother Damon’s kitchen. _In August_ , _we plant for the winter,_ Brother Agostino had said, _which we know will always come_.

Mikael was lost in these thoughts when the sky darkened above him and a voice spake down from the thundercloud.  
“Hi.”  
Mikael looked up, startled, towards the source of the voice, then quickly turned his eyes back down and refused to look up again.  
“Ahem. _Hi_.” the voice repeated, and Mikael reddened and glanced sideways, through the fence, at the intruder.  
“They’ll see you talking to me.” he muttered, annoyed. “You’ll get in trouble.”  
The intruder laughed.  
“Sure. What’s your name?” 

Mikael hesitated, then decided that the best course of action would be to simply ignore the problem. So instead of responding, he focused on patting down a particularly difficult lump of ground so that it properly cradled his seedling. His orange gloves browned where he dug them into the soil to shape the nest.

“Carrier,” the voice was annoyed now, “I asked your name.”  
The invocation of his status made the question a command, and now Mikael was a war with himself over whether he should obey or not. An officer did have the right, if necessity dictated, to demand information, and Mikael knew he couldn’t afford any more yellow flags on his file - be they from strange fence-side invaders or not. He bit his lip and gave ground.

“Mikael.” he answered, but didn’t look up.  
From the corner of his eye, he could see that the man was now leaning - _leaning_! - casually against the fencepost, with what seemed to be only the highest disregard for the rules of separation.  
“Hm. Mikael what?”  
Mikael reached for his spade, then used it to flatten down yet another stubborn piece of ground and picked up a new seedling.  
“Pacioli.” he answered, and stole a glance at the intruder to see if he had grown bored yet or not.  
“Italian?”  
“No.” Mikael cut him off, then graciously amended. “I’m adopted.”  
“Oh.”

They fell to silence, and a few more moments passed with Mikael busily trying to focus on his tree planting and the man across the fence trying to think of things to say to a carrier.

“Well, I’m an officer.”   
Mikael sighed. Not only was he saddled with a persistent suitor, but apparently this was a rather silly one as well.  
“Oh.” he said, and hoped that would be the end of it. The officer flushed a little, perhaps realizing that he’d made a poor introduction.  
“I mean, I’m in tactical response for the Northern Chain coast.”  
Mikael wasn’t sure how to respond to this.  
“Good.” he said, eventually. “We always need good…tactical responses.”  
The officer appeared to weigh this answer with some uncertainty.   
“Our division does a lot for the Union - we’re strategists. And we defend the borders - the islands in the northern chain.”  
“Islands don’t count as borders.” Mikael said immediately, reflexively, and rudely.

He thought about apologizing, but didn’t want to give the wrong impression. Instead, he peered up at the sky - the sun was still high.  
“They do, too! They’re a critical part of the national vision.”

The man sounded petulant, and Mikael couldn’t resist a glance upward to see if his face was as childish as his voice.  It wasn't. The officer had dark hair, blacker than night, and pale eyes set in a masculine, tanned face. He looked young and curious and like he was spoiling for trouble.

From the opposite corner of his eye, Mikael saw one of the Gardening Club's chaperones turn up to observe this interaction, but the thing came no closer than a few yards. 

Mikael wondered how he’d gotten into this area, and asked as much.  
“Been supervising a construction project,” the man responded, shrugging, “Over by the lake. We’re on duty today, but it’s break time. I took a walk, came upon you.”

Mikael thought over this. If the chaperone wasn’t responsive, then obviously the man was little threat to him - at least for now. Father Pacioli’s rebuke reflected in his mind. He had promised he would try to do well. Perhaps conversation wouldn’t hurt.

“So what are you building?” he asked. The officer seemed momentarily stunned, but recovered, clearing his throat. “Bridges. To the moors.” Mikael dipped an eyebrow.  
“The 'moors'? Where are you from?”  
The officer looked amused.  
“The deep norther coast.”  
“Here?”  
“Ah. In the far east of the Northern Territories.”  
Mikael put his spade down and looked up in interest.  
“I’ve never met anyone from there before.” he said, mostly to himself. The man grinned.  
“Beautiful land. Rough living. Lots of boats. Not as much ice as you’d expect.”

Mikael pondered this information and the two fell silent. Distantly, a bell rang, and the officer jolted upright.  
“Gotta run.” he said, and looked about to take off before he glanced back at Mikael. “Tomorrow, maybe?”  
Mikael shook his head.  
“Probably won’t be out tomorrow.”  
The man frowned, but Mikael ignored it. There would be others out tomorrow - the man could surely come back and find one of them. Someone more receptive than he himself was - someone interested.

“Well. Down the line, then.” the officer said, decisively. He turned to leave, then turned back quickly. “I’m Walder,” he blurted. “Jovan Walder.” Then the bell rang again and he turned and was gone.

Mikael watched the forest where he had disappeared into for a few more minutes, then went back to shaping the ground with his spade.


	17. August 14: Saint Maximilian Mary Kolbe

The most surprising thing about life at Hylas House was the beauty. Everything was beautiful, inside and out, in a pervasive way that even St. Xavier's -- with its raw stone hallways and smooth, red sandstone arches and beautiful glass windows -- hadn't been.

Fresh flowers sprouted from vases and sprung up in bowls all over the property. Intricate carvings made simple molding into works of art. Delicate corners glowed blue and red as sunlight filtered through beautifully stained glass. Walls transformed into forests and castles and landscapes with carefully painted murals. Dishes were ringed in ornamental filigree; silverware was polished to a high shine. Violins glowed with care; bookshelves were arranged by color and design; pillowcases, if frayed, were replaced immediately.

Everything was beautiful but Mikael -- a fact of which he was sharply reminded as he sat opposite Davies at the breakfast table. 

The other carrier's posture was perfect (as ever), and his dark, curly hair was tucked up into a fashionably unkempt knot. He smiled beatifically out at his group, crossing his legs primly at the ankle.

The hour was early, and the chaperones and eunuchs moved through the dining hall in silence, trying to keep the bustle of their daily work to a minimum. In some distant room, the warm scents of breakfast seeped outward, licking into the corners of the dining room in an effort to rouse its constituents. Around the hall, porcelain cups of coffee or tea steamed on white linen tablecloths while carriers in various stages of undress sipped at them and sighed about the day ahead.

"I hope you're all excited about Patronage Weekend." Davies reminded them, waving a hand casually at the table as he lifted his coffee (decaffeinated, and without sugar) to his lips and played 'breakfast' with a bowl of fruit. 

This was another surprising thing Mikael had discovered in Hylas House; the emotional suggestion. _I'm so glad we're all going to enjoy this together_ , Davies would say. Or perhaps, _I'm sure I don't need to remind you how grateful we all are to the administration for that._ On occasions of misbehavior: _You were angry, weren't you, Mikael? And that made you behave rashly. But you didn't mean it._ Or, more simply: _Aren't we just having **so** much fun?!_

Mikael discovered, over the course of several missteps, that in this way, his emotions were never left up to his own determination -- that responsibility belonged to Hylas House and his betters. Mikael's first responsibility was to learn to be happy when it was appropriate to be happy; to be sad when it was appropriate to be sad; and to be, by turns, charming, fearful, mischievous, wilting, shy, and excited when he was instructed to do so. Mikael's second responsibility was to learn to read the cues of his superiors (in this case, Davies) to determine which emotion he was being instructed to feel.

This had been a particular challenge for Mikael; at St. Xavier's, he had been constantly encouraged to seek the truth of his own experience.  
"Spend some time," Father Pacioli had instructed him after each wild argument, each crying fit, each broken dish, each relapse into his former reality, "Reflecting on this, Mikael. Think about what it means for you. Why did you decide to do this? Are you hurting? Are you angry? Sit beneath the alders and pray. Do you remember how I taught you to pray, Mikael?"

That simple question, recalled in the early morning at a bright-white table of linen and roses in a place so far from any he'd been before, made his heart ache. Mikael squeezed his eyes shut and put the thought of it away, in a little jeweled box to be taken out and aired in private. 

Davies spoke again. 

"We are dependent, here at Hylas House, on the generosity of our patrons and friends. That means, of course, that we express our appreciation for that generosity in the most effusive manner possible." 

Davies paused for a look around the table.

"Understood, carriers?"

~

In preparing for the arrival of the Patrons, there would be work for all of them -- beauty work. If aesthetics were their trade, then they would all become dedicated laborers. There were clothes to be cleaned and ironed, gardens to be weeded into neat rows of productivity; art projects to finish and hang upon the walls; epic poems to memorize for performance at a moment's notice.

And beneath it all, beneath the whines about fatigue and the commiserating moans about the chores that lay ahead, there coursed a stream of anticipation; an undercurrent of excitement. Simply put, it was this: many men left Hylas House with a wife.

~:~


	18. August 15: Solemnity of the Assumption of Mary

"Do you see what I see?" Jaden teased, sidling up next to Mikael in the champagne line at the first evening reception.  
Fatigued by a long day of entertaining, Mikael furrowed his brow in confusion and looked around.  
"What? What should I - "  
Jaden grinned that gamine grin of his, then leaned forward to offer, in a stage whisper:  
"I see your future husband."

Mikael glanced, panicked, over at the nearest guest, but it was an unfamiliar man in an ill-fitting black suit and cowboy boots. Jaden scoffed.  
"Not him. He's just a tag-along." the carrier blinked sharp, dark eyes out at the milling crowd. "But there are others…"  
~

The Patrons had arrived, in convoy, earlier that afternoon and the entirety of the carrier population had turned out to greet them on the steps of Hylas House. Afterward, the men had been individually escorted to their rooms, moving along in great bounding steps or at firm, ordered paces, arms slung around the carriers of their choice and laughing between themselves.

Mikael had hung back, suddenly shy and not certain whether he was allowed to be, and waited for an opportune moment to slip away into the library.

He'd been nearly there, headed in the opposite direction of the crowd of back-slapping men still loudly greeting each other and making vulgar bets about the relative size of their donations to the House, when he'd turned a corner by the office and found himself caught. 

In the middle of the hallway stood a tall, silver-haired man in a perfect gray suit; they each examined the other with surprise, before the man's brow had wrinkled and his mouth had slipped into a small smile.

"Christine, I do believe I've caught a mouse." he'd said, sliding his hands into his pockets and flicking an assessing eye over Mikael.

Mikael first had felt guilt; then panic, nipped at the heels by fear -- he hadn't been alone with a man in quite some time, and few of those memories had been happy ones. He ducked his head and drew back a bit, crossing his arms over his chest.

At the calling of her name, the Matron of the House had stepped forward into the hallway, a sleek leather portfolio in one hand. She'd blinked at Mikael, then smiled a subtly critical smile and tilted her head.  
"Oh, Mikael. How lovely to run into you; we're all just on our way to join in to tea in the Great Room."

The command was clear, and there was always something in her gentleness that made her even more intimidating to Mikael. He deferred immediately, nodding and uncrossing his arms to join his hands in front of him.

The silver-haired man had watched the interaction with some interest.

"Oh, go easy on him, Christie. He looks a bit…overwhelmed."  
Then he'd stepped forward, pressing into Mikael's space, and although Mikael could see from the Matron's face that now was not the time for prudish theatrics, he couldn't help the step he took backwards and the anxious glance he surrendered.

The man had laughed a little, and Mikael had seen perfect rows of white teeth and gray eyes that narrowed with amusement.  
"My word, how adorable. They don't make them quite like this anymore, do they? All tarts and flirts nowadays, too worldly for their own goods."

Mikael hadn't been sure what the man meant by this, and he'd been having trouble reading the Matron's face and so had decided that a holding pattern would be best until he received further instruction. It came quickly.  
"What's your name, little bird?"  
And there had been a thousand questions between that question and only a few right answers.  
"Mikael," he'd responded, feeling less and more like himself than he ever had.

~

"I think that one's checking out your ass." Jaden observed casually, still patrolling the room with his gaze. 

Embarrassed by the tone of the conversation, Mikael scurried forward in line as it progressed. Jaden followed him closely, tilting his head in interest.

"Well, don't be ashamed." he scolded and bumped Mikael lightly with his right shoulder. "Just be clever. Cleverness beats shame by a mile."  
Mikael flushed, and Jaden tilted his head, regarding the other carrier in shrewd amusement.  
"Did you not understand what Davies meant by 'be hospitable'?"

Mikael glanced nervously at Jaden; he hated always feeling two steps behind everyone else. At St. Xavier's, they would have called him an innocent heart. Father Pacioli would have smiled and laughed his gentle laugh, and rubbed Mikael's hair behind his ears. 'A kind disposition,' he would have said, praising his son, 'And an innocent heart.'

But with no Father Pacioli and no terra cotta garden and no quiet time for prayer, Mikael was left with only Jaden and the sharp reminder of his own inadequacy.

Jaden took pity on him.  
"Here, some Dutch courage."  
The carrier snaked out an arm and caught two flutes of bright, creamy champagne from a passing tray; he held one out for Mikael. Mikael took his champagne glass and sipped it, trying to imitate Jaden's way of watching-without-watching the crowd.  
"Well?" Jaden raised an eyebrow. "See anything you like?"  
Mikael flushed and dropped his gaze to the ground.  
"No." he answered, suddenly thinking of the Pièta and his garden at home.  
Jaden rolled his eyes.  
"Well, you need to learn to like _something_. This is a carrier house, not a hospice home. We're renting rooms, not deeding them."  
Before Mikael could respond to this, Jaden's attention was captured by events taking place across the room.  
"Oh, look - someone's talking to Raeshon."

Mikael looked in the direction Jade had indicated, eyes tracing along to where a portly man with rosy cheeks and an immaculate navy suit had separated Rae from his group and cornered him by the staircase. The carrier, Mikael noted, was doing what he did best: playing the coquette, alternately smiling brightly and looking shyly away, hiding his face with one hand so that just his dimples peeked out; touching the man's shoulder lightly. The man was devouring the entire performance. 

"Someone's _always_ talking to Raeshon." Mikael snapped, suddenly feeling irritable.  
Jaden glanced at Mikael with that steely-eyed way he had, then shrugged sipped his champagne.  
"Well, look sharp." Jade murmured, his gaze focused over Mikael's shoulder. "Someone's talking to you now."

Before Mikael even had time to panic, he turned and found a middle-aged gentleman in a well-tailored but nondescript dark suit approaching them. Mikael's heart began to beat faster; Jaden leaned over to whisper into his ear.  
"Be good, Mikael. Dammit, be good."

There was a firmness in his voice that Mikael was unused to, and a thin thread of desperation - but there was no time to consider these, because the man had come up to them and was raising his glass of champagne. 

"Gentlemen." he said in greeting, and Jaden smiled sweetly and flipped his dark hair so that it fell over his bare shoulder.  
"Charlie." Jaden purred, affectionately, "So good to see you again."  
The man's eyes slid sideways to Mikael, then back to Jaden.  
"Always a pleasure, Jade."  
The carrier preened and half-turned to frame Mikael.  
"Have you two met? This is one of our newest recruits, and an absolute darling. Mikael, from -- where was it again, love?"

Mikael almost extended his hand - but memory and retraining and general social anxiety kicked in and he remembered that carriers don't do that and so he shifted his grip on his new champagne flute to cover the mistake. 

"From Saint Xavier's," Mikael answered, stumbling over his words. "From - from the north."  
"From the north!" Jaden repeated, as if it were the most interesting thing he'd ever heard. "Isn't that just the most interesting thing you've ever heard? And Mikael, this is the most esteemed of our esteemed guests: Charlton Lacey. He's come all the way from the Southern Coast, just to see us. Can you imagine?"

Lacey's gaze flicked over Jaden quickly before turning back to Mikael, who flushed under the scrutiny and shifted anxiously from one foot to the other. From the corner of his eye, he caught Jaden's disapproving look. Carriers weren't supposed to fidget. The second error made Mikael flush more, and get that uneasy feeling he got when he caught sight of himself in the mirror sometimes.

Mikael knew he wasn't unhandsome - he certainly had all the right parts in the right places and in good enough proportions. But he also knew that carriers at Hylas House were _beautiful_ , and Mikael still could not conceive of himself as one of them.

He did not understand the appeal of the cut of his jaw, neither too masculine nor too feminine; the arresting quality that his eyes gained in the sunlight; the enticing nature of his soft, tawny skin. He did not understand himself.

And beyond that, Mikael had been told - many times - that vanity was a sin. The twin traps, they were: narcissism and self-adoration. An empty pit of obsession. What God praised above all else was not beauty, but kindness. 

And so it was impossible - wildly impossible - for Mikael to conceive of the idea that he might be more beautiful, more beguiling, more full of raw, naïve appeal than any other carrier in the room.

Charlton Lacey talked to them for a brief time about nothing of import. Jade smiled and stood with one hip jutted out - _'contrapposto,'_ Mikael recalled from lessons with Brother Duncan - and allowed his hair to slip back and forth over his shoulder. Charlton flirted shamelessly, although he maintained a respectful distance from them both. His eyes, though…his eyes followed Mikael's every move, as a cat watches from behind a shade: stalking, waiting, preparing. Feeling inordinately put upon and bashful, Mikael kept quieter than usual, going so far as to appear deliberately uninterested in the conversation as a whole. 

Just as he was becoming desperate for anything else to pay attention to, Mikael caught sight of Rae being led off by the portly gentleman. His housemate was being guided by the hand, his head tucked down behind the man's shoulder and his fingers looped between the man's own. His dark skin had a slight flush to it, and as they trailed through the rear of the room towards the exit, he avoided catching anyone's eyes. At the threshold of the hall, he stopped abruptly, and the momentary hesitation made the man turn and murmur something to Rae. Whatever it had been, the carrier evidently found it soothing, because he yielded and followed along, out of the room.

Davies glanced up at the departure, briefly, and then continued his conversation with the Ambassador without missing a beat. 

Mikael, who had been watching the entire scene intently, turned to Jaden.  
"Rae's being taken away." he said.  
Jade looked disinterestedly up at Mikael, then turned back to the guest they'd been entertaining.  
"Oh."  
Mikael didn't know what he'd expected; it was unlikely that this rousing bit of information would have spurred Jaden into swift action. Nonetheless, he'd felt that something should be done.  
"Well, shouldn't we - "  
Jaden shot his peer a withering look that silenced him.  
"He's _fine_ , Mikael."  
Jade shifted his weight to the opposite hip and held out a welcoming hand, beckoning his friend. "But why don't you come and tell Charlton all about your little garden project?" 

Mikael looked again at the door, through which the carrier and his leader had long since departed, and then back up to Charlton. The man was watching him with the wary, amused expression of one whose subordinate has just done something particularly wicked and clever.

"Yes, Mikael." he agreed, finally addressing the carrier directly, "Come chat with us."

~:~

It was after midnight by the time Mikael started to tire. The three of them had found refuge from the central bustle of the party in a small cranny full of books, and Jade had kicked off his shoes and curled up like a cat in one of the worn, overstuffed antique chairs. Charlton took another swig from his glass of scotch and gestured towards the rest of the room.  
"Hell of a party, isn't it?"

Jaden, who had by then made his way through the better part of six and a half glasses of champagne, grinned cheekily at Charlton.  
"And it's just getting started. Stick around, if you know what's good for you."  
Charlton laughed, a coarse and boisterous sound that startled Mikael.  
"Already made plans for tomorrow."  
he said, and a cast of drink or dim light made his eyes shine at Mikael. Jaden's expression suddenly sobered. Charlton laughed again and turned a speculative eye over to the other carrier.  
"Maybe." he said, stretching one arm over the top of his chair and leaning back, legs cast arrogantly apart. "I'll see you two there."  
Jaden was watching Charlton closely now, and tucked his hair behind his ear; Mikael recognized this as a nervous action.  
"Mikael's only just moved in here." Jaden said, perhaps meaning to change the subject. "He's new."

Charlton took another long draw of his scotch.  
"Oh?" he said, his voice full of irony, "Is that so?"

Whatever Charlton had planned to say next was interrupted at that moment by the appearance of Admiral Holly in their little group, departed from a nearby cluster of military men that all seemed to be drinking highballs. Jaden straightened up immediately, dropped his legs down from where they were folded beneath him, and tugged a bit at the edge of his natori. Mikael perked up ever so slightly, picking up on Jade's energy. Charlton did nothing.

"Admiral Holly." Jade inclined his head politely in greeting. "How are you enjoying our hospitality?"  
"It's delightful, Jaden, as ever." the Admiral responded, bisecting the group to lean over and place an affectionate pat on Jaden's shoulder. Mikael noticed that the other carrier smiled, but kept his gaze averted.  
Holly turned to Mikael next, and extended a hand.  
"Carrier," he said, politely. "I don't recall your name, but one doesn't forget a face like that. How's the transition been from Wiltshire?"  
Mikael blushed at the praise, and followed Jaden's lead in looking shyly away.  
"Wonderful, sir. Of course."  
Holly looked at Mikael closely for a moment - an assessment. Mikael bit his lip, and then lost his words to the wind. Holly raised an eyebrow.  
"Well - " Mikael began, then hesitated, then went on, "Also, it's Mikael, sir."  
Holly raised both eyebrows.  
"What's that?"  
"My name, sir." Mikael explained. "It's Mikael."  
Holly watched him for a moment longer, an emotion between surprise and pride crossing his face.  
"Of course." he responded, and his voice took on a tone of something not unlike admiration. "Mikael."

Pleasantries settled, the Admiral turned to Charlton Lacey.  
"Charlie." he said, which earned him little more than a blink of response, "How are things over on the far side of the country?"  
Charlton Lacey made no move to extend a hand; neither did Holly.  
"Well." he answered, simply, and sipped his scotch.  
Holly's eyes flicked down to where Charlton had unlaced his tie and left it to dangle around the neck of his shirt.  
"Wonderful." he said, simply, then turned again to Jaden.

"Jaden, are you counting the days yet, my dear?"  
Jaden shrugged one of his elegant, fetching shrugs that made Mikael feel odd and ungainly in comparison.  
"I'll be free as soon as your son comes to collect me." he answered, sweetly, but his eyes had a sort of imploring wisp to them. "...but he hasn't come to collect me yet." Jade finished, and Mikael took note of the fact that Charlton looked away during this exchange.  
"Soon, dear." Holly responded, almost tenderly, before delivering one further, curt look to Charlton and turning away, patting Mikael on the shoulder, and leaving the group.

As soon as the man had departed, Jaden relaxed again. Charlton tossed back the last of his scotch and set the empty glass on a nearby table.  
"Well," he said, and stood. "It's getting late."  
"Yes," Jaden agreed hurriedly, "Mikael, aren't you tired?"  
Mikael nearly answered honestly, but a tense look in Jaden's face convinced him that perhaps a polite demurral might be best.  
"It's been a rather long day," he said, glancing sideways at the clock, "And I still have to say my prayers before bed."  
Charlton stopped short and blinked at this, then abruptly laughed, loud and full-bodied.  
"Why, you sweet little thing. Jaden's been rubbing off on you, then?"  
Jaden narrowed his eyes at Charlton, but Mikael must have missed the joke; he shrugged helplessly. Charlton raised his eyebrows and grinned, then bowed obsequiously.  
"I'll leave you to get on with your holy mysteries, then. Good night, my little prince of Hylas House -- and his liege."  
And with that, Charlton tossed his discarded jacket over one shoulder, shook his wrist to loosen it, then slipped smoothly out.

Jaden watched him go, then looked around the room. The crowd had thinned considerably, and the clock was close to striking two. Davies had disappeared, and only a carrier or two remained, lounging sleepily in one corner of the room.  
"Come on," he told Mikael, getting to his feet and finding his shoes, "I think we're off-duty. You've got therapy in the morning and I've got - well, I don't know, but I'm sure it'll be important. Let's call it a night."

~:~


	19. August 16: St. Stephen of Hungary

**August 16: St. Stephen of Hungary**

Breakfast was a meager politeness during Patronage Weekend. The kitchens — staffed silently by eunuchs, barren women, and men too old to be of any danger —were kept open around the clock to provide service at a moment’s notice to famished patrons, and Hylas House carriers were wont to wander in at any hour (or dash in, hair mussed and cheeks pink) to receive a dollop of jam, a bit of extra cream, one pancake, a plate of eggs and steak to be carried out…

Mikael woke well before everyone else, picked up the first walking-around clothes he laid eyes on, and tiptoed his way across the lushly carpeted floor of the upstairs hall and down the back staircase toward the gates. 

Passing the library, he caught the sound of low voices; a curious glance inward scandalized him and he hurried on.

The smell of coffee drew him briefly toward the dining room, but he was in no condition to be _seen_ at breakfast, and his heart was eager for the cool morning air. 

The health center was quiet as he slipped by, save the steady movement sounds of two or three of the younger patrons who still kept their military routines. Fear gripped him, suddenly, and he kept his eyes firmly averted as he carried on to the outside.

Reaching the outdoors made him gasp with relief and the shock of cold air; the morning was more brisk than he’d expected, but it was too late now to turn back for a jacket; his gray sweatshirt, ripped at the neck but serviceable, would have to do. And besides, the wind was low and the sun was rising; surely he’d warm up soon.

Taking an avoidant path around the rear left of the building, Mikael caught the eye of a guarding chaperone as he slipped beyond the hedges and rolled his eyes as the damned thing began to follow him — at a distance, but a tracker nonetheless.

Its presence annoyed him, and so for some reason that Mikael would not later be able to discern, he made an abrupt decision: instead of heading south, toward the planting plots, he turned sharply left and disappeared into the mouth of the garden maze. 

Azaleas lined the pathway, supported in their robustness by the thick verdance of the hedges; Mikael disappeared between their bulk, his plimsoll slippers moving quietly along the cracked stone path.

There was peace in these hedges. It was a maze, not a labyrinth, but Mikael could imagine, could draw his mind out of that moment/that place into another time, into the broken shade of Father Pacioli’s courtyard in the late springtime, when the air was turning just toward heat and the birds were singing their vibrant, angry summer songs in the trees.

 _Walk a labyrinth if you feel afraid, Mikael,_ his father had told him. _Come out where you went in; the same place, but a different man._

Mikael put his head down, focused on his feet, traced the path, and got lost in his own thoughts.

“And what’s this? I’ve caught a mouse again.” 

Startled, Mikael turned to find his interloper standing among the hedges, half-sheltered by a bent tree and comfortably observing the world. Surprise, then embarrassment came over Mikael; he wasn’t dressed for company, or even for the outdoors. And though he wasn’t breaking any rules, he surely couldn’t have been meant to be traipsing around in the hedges at all hours of the breakfast morning. 

He drew his sweatshirt closer around his shoulders, eyes averted as he tried to figure out the best way out of this. Jaden would have answers for this; he had answers for everything. Jaden would just toss his hair and let his mouth fall into that ironic grin of his, and all the rules would bend for him.

“Hello.” Mikael said, all rough shyness and unabashed humility.  
The silver-haired man stepped forward.  
“Hello, Mouse. What are you doing sneaking away again?”

~:~

Mikael found the others in the late morning, gathered for tea in their favorite corner of the dining room. Jaden greeted him with a wide smile.  
“Kael! We were just talking about the news.”

"Hardly news." Pouted Aster, an annoyingly delicate carrier who lived one hallway over from Mikael, “We knew it was going to happen."  
Mikael settled into one of the mahogany chairs and reached for the snack plate. He bit into a crisp carrot and looked curiously at the other carrier.  
“The news?”

Rae grinned, his dimples deepening in his dark, boyish face.  
“The invitations.” he divulged shyly, reaching into his satchel and withdrawing a small envelope embossed with an R and bearing Mikael’s name, handwritten. 

Mikael accepted the salmon-colored bit of correspondence with surprise.  
“Invitations to what?”  
Jaden raised his eyebrows in an expression of indulgent wonder.  
“Mikael, honestly, I have no idea what to do with you sometimes. Invitations to Raeshon and Dell Biltmore’s engagement party, you incredible, ignorant little angel."

Mikael was bewildered, but the others must have mistaken his expression of confusion for worry, because Jaden immediately began to assure him. 

“Oh, calm down, Mikael, it’s all above board. Quick, I know, and I was as surprised as you are, but Rae assures us he hasn’t broken the rules of Hylas House, and what choice do we have but to believe him?”

Jaden winked playfully at Rae, whose dimples pinched happy dips in his cheeks, before turning his attention back to Mikael.  
“Now gather round and speculate on what you think you’re going to wear.”  
Aster tucked half a meringue into his cheek and nudged Mikael with a bony elbow.  
"It's very important." he annotated. 

Mikael tucked away the pretty envelope, feeling suddenly sentimental. It hadn’t been so long ago that he’d been near death in the CEC; now life was all linen tablecloths and embossed invitations. Part of him feared it; part of him reveled in it; all of him knew it wouldn’t last. He poked at his sautéed fish.

“I suppose I’ll just wear a natori? I’m not sure; and why does it matter? It’ll be Raeshon’s day, anyway.”  
Jaden rolled his eyes, then exchanged a frustrated look with Clarence, Aster’s elder roommate.  
"Because weddings breed more weddings, darling.” Jade explained, with the long-suffering patience of a primary school teacher. “Don’t you want to have a wedding of your own?”

Mikael flushed, and had no response. Raeshon poured himself some tea from the pot on the table and spooned one lump of sugar into it, reached for a second, then thought better of it and stirred his tea instead.

“I’m trying hard to make it good for you all — a carrier from my first PGL's first group at the CEC had such an incredible engagement party once that every one of zer bridesmaids went home with a rancher fiancé from the high plains.”  
Everyone but Mikael simultaneously winced, but Rae rolled his eyes.  
"Hey!” he scolded, “For most of us out there in the general population, a house in the high plains might as well be a damn castle.”  
Clarence tsked.  
"Don't swear, Rae.” he chided as he poured a bit more milk into his tea. “Dell won’t like it.”

“Well, I’m aiming high." Aster remarked, chewing an unidentifiable vegetable. "Admirals, Generals, and heirs apparent only."  
Jaden laughed and showed off bright, even teeth.  
"So you want a pedigreed man, even though you come without papers?" Clarence giggled and the rest joined in. Aster colored just a bit, and Jaden felt sorry and nudged him with a shoulder.  
“Anyway, I didn't even realize you were in the market, Star. I thought it was all 'I'm focusing on my training' and 'Good carriers don't ask around.’”  
Aster shrugged one cavalier shoulder.  
"I'm just thinking of my future." he sniffed.

~:~

Afternoon came and went with little excitement; lunch was smoked fish in some kind of savory reduction alongside vitamin-enriched vegetables, a mussel soup, and a buttery dessert in a honey sauce. Mikael did not know this; he did not attend lunch, occupied instead with more immediate indulgences.

 

“Come on, Mik. Take just a little something and you’ll feel better.” Jaden soothed, kneeling by his bed with a cup of broth and a handful of comfort meds. “I promise.”

Mikael shook his head miserably and the room spun; his belly clenched, and he groaned. Jaden sighed and stood.

“It’s just bad luck.” he said, pityingly, “You must’ve gotten a bad canapé.”

“Well, I envy him.” Clarence interrupted, laying himself out in long, sensuous lines across Jaden’s bed. “Because I do _not_ feel like going to this thing.” he lifted his arms, stretched taut, olive muscles. “Not at all.”

“You have to go - it’s the party.” Aster reasoned from where he stood in front of Mikael’s closet, pondering.  
“Oh, I mean, of course I’ll go,” Clarence said, waving a dismissive hand. “I’m just saying that _I don’t feel like it_.”

Mikael whimpered pitifully, and Jaden turned his attention from the lengthwise mirror he’d been examining himself in.

“I think it’ll be fun.” Aster answered.  
“That’s because you haven’t been before.” Jaden responded, looking around for the glass of water he’d poured for Mikael.

In the handheld mirror in his right hand, Clarence checked the outline of one dark brow, then the other.  
“True.” he agreed.

“Mikael, you barely have any clothes!” Aster exclaimed, dismayed at the slim progress he’d been making. “You should request that for your patronage gift this year.”  
Clarence made a noise of excitement.  
“Oh, I forgot about our patronage presents! I’m going to ask for champagne.”  
“I’m going to ask for a nice, fat cock.” Aster smirked, and the others burst into laughter.

~

By the time night had fallen, Mikael had been persuaded to imbibe a powerful comfort pill and was feeling much better, if less himself. 

Simon and Aster had prodded/dragged him into a shower, and then into a patterned blue natori and a thin black shirt for the evening. The hot water of the shower had soothed Mikael, as it always did, and when he reemerged, Jaden had opened a window and cleaned up the room. 

The freshness of everything revitalized Mikael, and he had dressed without fuss, then let Aster brush his hair back from his face into pretty waves.

~:~

When they arrived at the party, Raeshon was already tipsy and was delighted to see them. He waved excitedly from where he was dangling from the arm of the rosy-cheeked man from the day before, gesturing them over.

Aster and Clarence, quick to respond, grinned and waved back before leading the rest of the group over; Mikael lagged behind. Jaden just rolled his eyes, but kept up. 

Greetings were made all around — “This is Dell Biltmore, my fiancé. Dell, sweetie, these are my Hylas Housemates!” — and after the appropriate fawning, Rae caught one of his friends by the arm and dragged him away from the group.

“Mikael,” he said, excitedly, in a low tone, “there’s someone I want you to meet.”

They shuffled over, paired together at the elbows, to a nearby group of older men with sharp haircuts and clear intentions. They were former military, likely decorated (but such a thing was impossible to tell in this setting, where uniforms were forbidden and titles were mentioned only in passing), and unconcerned with rushing headlong into their evening. 

Mikael balked, briefly, but Raeshon missed it and hurried him forward. 

When they reached the group, Rae straightened up and cast a darling smile until they were recognized by one of the men.

“Raymond, sweetheart. How are you?”  
“Rae _shon_ ,” the carrier corrected, sweetly enough to make it seem more like a pleasantry than a polishing. “And I’m wonderful — I’d be more wonderful still if _Dell_ would sneak away with me.” he added, cheekily, earning a round of laughter and whistles from the group.

“Who’s your friend, Rae?” one of the men asked, lifting a finger around his whiskey glass. Mikael flushed and ducked his head a little. Rae rubbed their shoulders together.  
“This is Mikael, one of my favorite friends here at Hylas. He’s from the north — raised by monks, can you believe it? Up at St. Xavier’s or some such. Anyway, he’s terribly sweet and terribly shy. I thought one of you gentlemen might be kind enough to help him feel at home in his first Patronage party?” 

A chorus of eager responses greeted them; pretending to scan the group, Rae furrowed his brow in thought, then turned to one gentleman.

“Bruce! Why don’t you take Mikael to get a drink from the punch table?”

Groans, pleas, and complaints followed the declaration. The gentleman turned to face Mikael directly, and the carrier blanched — it was the same silver-haired man from the maze that morning.

The man turned to regard Mikael with the same assessing, indulgent eye he’d had twice now.

“Happy to.”

 

~

Without much further fuss, they found themselves by the punch table in the main room; around them, carriers and men were engaged in private conversations with each other; with groups of friends; with Christine and other administrators who wandered around the room but seemed eager to take their leave.

Bruce spoke briefly to the bartender, a chaperone trussed up for the occasion, then turned back to Mikael.

“You aren’t intending to sneak away from this event, as well, are you?” he asked, amusement coloring his voice and lightening his words. “I’d hate to have to turn you in after two successful escapes.”

Mikael flushed.  
“No, sir.”  
The man’s eyebrow shot up, and his eyes slid sideways to Mikael in a way that was more predatory than impressed. Feeling stupid, Mikael bit his lip.

The chaperone handed him two glasses; the champagne went into Mikael’s hand and the scotch into Bruce’s own.

A hand pressed lightly to the small of his back steered Mikael away from the punchbowl and back toward the room. 

“Saint Xavier’s.” he said, thoughtfully, his hand unmoving as they walked. “Are you…very religious, Mikael?”  
“I am.” Mik answered, tightly, because he had grown accustomed to the carriers — even in Hylas House — taking great fun at his expense in matters of religiosity. But no such mockery came from Bruce; he seemed to be asking only politely.  
“Ah.” he said, and took a sip from his glass, shepherding Mikael into a little nook just to the right of the doors that led from the main dining room into a dimmer passageway from which music spilled forth. “So few carriers are.”

Mikael didn’t know what to say to this, and so he said nothing and watched instead as Christine and a few of the elder teachers took their leave of the party.

“How was the rest of your morning? You made it safely back to your room, I presume. None of these rakish gentlemen intercepted you, did they?”  
Mikael let a bit of a grin sneak across his face.  
“I made it back with my honor intact, I assure you.”  
“Good,” Bruce said, a small smile crossing his own features, “Any alternative would have been a terrible shame.”  
His voice dropped low on the latter bit, and Mikael went a bit pink.  
“I was fine.” he said, awkwardly, and crossed his arms over his chest.

Bruce laughed, showing straight white teeth and making his gray suit wrinkle a bit where he thrust his jacket backward. Mikael snuck an eyeful from the side — Bruce was as tall as George, back at the abbey, but slimmer than any of the men he’d grown up with, and leaner in ways that belied a legacy of athletic work.

“Why _are_ you always sneaking away from us during this weekend, Mikael? Is the company not to your liking?”  
Mikael sipped his champagne and shook his head, feeling on firmer ground.  
“Everyone’s delightful,” he said, and was inwardly pleased with himself for how much like Davies he sounded, “I just…need a bit of a break, sometimes. From the attention.”  
Bruce’s face shifted.  
“And here I thought all you carriers loved the attention.”  
Mikael set his jaw.  
“Not me.” he said, and finished the glass of champagne before he meant to. Bruce signaled a passing chaperone and collected another for Mikael. 

“Is your father still alive, Mikael?” the man asked, casually, and although the question felt strange, Mikael was not savvy enough to know why.  
“He is.”  
“And are you his only son?”  
“I am — he’s taken vows.”  
“After he raised you?”  
“Before. I was adopted.”

The eyebrows shot up again, and Mikael felt defensive.

“I was a gift.” he said, as Father Pacioli had said to him so many times, and turned away to take too many sips of his second glass of champagne. Bruce watched the curve of his throat as he swallowed, then kindly turned his gaze away.  
“Indeed.” he said, then was quiet.

Mikael glanced around; the spirit of the party was changing as the hour grew later. Laughter was more raucous, touches lingered longer, drinks were poured fuller. In his little nook with polite Bruce, he wondered if he really could manage to sneak away again, to find some quiet time with his rosary and his thoughts. 

Bruce’s hand on his forearm startled him, and he pulled away before he could stop himself.  
“Oh — sorry, I — “ he covered his mistake with another long swill of champagne and a deep blush.  
“Quite alright.” Bruce said, but he seemed to be contemplating something distant and unfamiliar to Mikael. His eyes sparked in a peculiar way, then went dark.

“Come,” he said, abruptly, putting away the last of his scotch and setting the glass to the side, “It’s getting late, and we ought to be getting you home.”

It seemed less a request than an order, and Mikael was being grasped by the elbow and directed toward the door before he knew what was happening. It was only when they had reached the end of the hallway leading past the library, and the sounds of the party had faded away, that Mikael realized they were alone.

~:~


	20. August 17: St. Joan of the Cross

At the turn of the hall, where the familiar yellow glow of the party faded into the menacing gray of an unlit space, Mikael balked and pulled back. The abruptness of his resistance caused Bruce, who had kept moving along his expected trajectory, to crash bodily into him. Mikael flinched away — Bruce was too close, too familiar. The scent of his cologne filled the space between them, and Mikael had to shift to put space between himself and the amused inquiry of Bruce’s gaze.

“Frightened of me, little mouse?” he asked, and there was some whisper of something in his voice that Mikael did not know, was not certain of, and furthermore did not wish to acquaint himself with. He drew back.

“No. I just — “

And there were only seconds in which he had to decide what his lie would be, but fortunately he was delivered from the inevitable sin by the diamond-sharp voice of Jaden, who burst crisply into their space and called his name.

“Mikaaaaaaael! There y’are.”  
Like a cat, Jaden came slinking up the hallway. His natori was bunched on one side, his shoes were clasped in his hand, and his eyes were bright and shiny. Mikael cast a fleeting glance at Bruce — but his face was unreadable, save a mild wisp of annoyance that Mikael found unremarkable under the circumstances.  
“I’was just wondering how in the hell I was going to find my way to the room, and I — *hic* — thought you might’ve gone off already. Are you feeling better, my darling roommate? Tummy still bothering you?” 

Jade made an immediate insertion of himself; in one smooth motion, he had slipped between them and clasped Mikael about the waist, leaning heavily onto his friend, spreading a curtain of dark hair across Mikael’s shoulder. 

“Well, thas’ femininity for you. Bu’ you look a lil’ bit better. Got some color in your cheeks now!” Jaden accentuated this assessment with a rowdy slap to Mikael’s ass. “Bu’ anyway I’m soooo glad I found you, m’darlin’ roomie! Take me home, will you? I’m drunk and you’re ill, and anyway Charlie’s a boor.”  
Bruce’s eyebrows shot up, but Jaden continued on merrily, unaffected.  
“And the night party’ll be no fun for an old almost-married carrier like me.” With a glance toward their companion slight enough to have been missed by anyone of ordinary vigilance, Jaden affected a cute pout, rolling his head back to look up at Bruce.

“M’sorry to have int’rrupted your walking-time, sweet roomie, but would’you pleaaaaaaase take me home?” he entreated, and Mikael looked helplessly to Bruce, who had taken on an expression of exasperated indulgence, the edge of his mouth turned up in a smile.

“Looks like that’s best. This one had a little too much fun, hmm?”  
Mikael gave a rueful grin, and turned those bright eyes (for which there was no comparison in all of Hylas House) on Bruce.  
“Looks that way.”  
Bruce laughed and leaned in a little closer to Mikael, so that their eyes aligned. His expression still had something in it, something of hunger and nighttime, but now it was tempered by a sort of piteous melange.  
“And it sounds like you’d better you get some rest as well, poor thing. They have something in the clinic to make you feel better, I’m sure.”  
“Yes, I’m - of course.” Mikael stuttered out, confused.

Then there was a pause of uncertainty, a moment in which Mikael felt that something was expected of him which he did not know how to give. He looked away, then up at Bruce, then to the wall again.

Jaden burped and Bruce rolled his eyes.  
“Right. I’ll leave you two to it. Expect you can get home on your own now, hmm?”

Bruce turned to leave, and there was something in the departing, in the music of the night, in Jaden’s earlier bid to him to _be good, Mikael, dammit, be good_ and Mikael felt an urgency that confused him.

“Wait!” he said, and Bruce turned, mildly.  
“Hmm?”  
Mikael hesitated, shifting his grip on his listing friend.  
“See you tomorrow?” he finally offered, lamely. A small smile crossed Bruce’s face, seeming to take over only part of his expression.  
“Indeed.” he said, and with one final nod, took his leave. 

Mikael and Jaden struggled around the corner, Jade leaning too much of his weight on Mikael to make walking simple. 

As they passed beyond view, from the shadow of the unlit hall back into the light of the private staircase that led to their rooms, Jade suddenly straightened again, pulled himself loose of Mikael’s grip, and shook out his shoulders.

“Well. Glad that’s over, then. Shall we see what’s in the kitchen and then head off to bed?”

~:~

In the morning, Mikael was surprised to wander down to a nearly-empty breakfast; as if the whole of Hylas House (save one or two) had just up and gone in the night. Nevertheless, the buffet was outlaid as ever — fruits, flowers, smoked fish and bits of meat. Mikael poured himself a cup of tea and sat down to have his breakfast. 

Around nine, Jaden wandered in to the room, startled at it barrenness, and plopped down into the chair opposite Mikael as if he’d taken a shock.

“Wow! I’ve never seen the place so empty. So is this what it’s like to be one of the Holy Untouched?” Jade looked around as if seeing marvels. “I never thought I’d have the honor.”

Mikael frowned, and Jade yawned rudely and wandered over to get a grapefruit. When he returned, Mikael was determined and ready.

“The Holy Untouched?” he demanded, suspecting fun at his expense and ready to snipe at Jade about it. He’d woken after a rough sleep with a head full of fuzz from the night before, and reflecting on his own behavior with Bruce (too forward? too shy?) had left him feeling confused, embarrassed, and unusually irritable. 

Jade poured himself some water from the table’s carafe and shook his head.

“Oh, not like that, Mikael, darling. Just an expression, and a flattering one. It just means that we’re the ones — “ here, he pointed around the room to the few spots of human existence who puttered over tea and biscuits and were unusually bright-eyed, “ — who don’t go to the night party.”  
“What’s the night party?”  
Jaden shrugged, turning around to look for the coffee cart.  
“It’s not for you, that’s what it is.” he turned back to Mikael. “Now, let’s talk of more pleasant things. What are you going to do with yourself on your day off today? Following up on any exciting leads from last night?”  
“Leads?”  
“Men, darling. From the evening reception? Or didn’t you talk to anyone but that silver-haired fox I managed to talk you out of giving your virginity to?”  
Mikael flushed scarlet.  
“I wasn’t — “  
“Oh, I’m only teasing. Obviously that little sneaking away stunt wasn’t your idea. Why do you think I came after you?”

Jaden flagged down the coffee cart, and an elderly kitchen man pushed it over to them and poured into two delicate china cups. Jaden took his, thanked and dismissed the coffee man, and took two rapturous sips before turning his attention to Mikael again. 

“I did come in time, didn’t I?”  
“In time to what?”  
Jaden rolled his eyes.  
“In time to stop him from getting two fingers in your cute little pink cunt, that’s what.”

Mikael drew back, so scandalized that his heart was racing.  
“Nothing happened.” he stammered out, loudly. Jaden observed him closely, then took another sip of his coffee.  
“Mm. Well, be careful with that one, Mikael. I get the sense he’s not accustomed to being told ‘no.’”

Mikael nodded and Jaden sighed.

“Hell, you be careful with all of them.” he said, partly to Mikael and partly to himself. A thought seemed to occur to him, then, and he raised one finger around his coffee cup to point at Mikael. “And stay the hell away from Charlie. He’s more trouble than a little bit, and I can barely manage him myself.”

Mikael nodded again, picking up his coffee cup and turning it in his hands.  
“So what exactly is the night party?” he asked. Jaden glanced at him, his face the picture of discomfort.  
“Headmistress looks the other way for a night, and the party keeps going.” he said, simply. “Some of the guests like to use the time to get to know their ‘favorite little carrier’ a whole lot better. Others like to get to know a _lot_ of carriers a little better.”

Mikael blinked wide eyes at Jaden.  
“It’s an _orgy_?”  
“Oh, it’s that, too. But a bit more entertaining. There’s usually a revue, a performance…sometimes the carriers like to compete to show off their _tricks_. Bit of a perversity circus, if you will. Anyway, booze and drugs a-plenty, which can make it alright, but mostly just a bunch of horned-up old fighters off their already-lax leash for the night.” Jaden shuddered, delicately. “And the only way to get out of it with any measure of dignity is to get engaged before you go or at least before you leave in the morning. Or you can get pregnant and pretend you don’t know until later. Barring that, it’s best to just fake sick. Or — as might work for you and I’m guessing those two cool kids in the matching sweater sets over there — you can declare yourself a delicate, precious virgin and say you’re saving it all for your husband.”

Jaden cut into the grapefruit.  
“But keep in mind — that kind of desperate chastity usually brings out the weirdos. You’ll end up with more nuts than a squirrel, and probably more problems than you avoided by not going to the party. It’s a tactic best reserved for the occultists and seriously, seriously sheltered.”

Mikael’s eyes widened further, and Jaden made a dramatic loop with his knife.  
“Hence: the Holy Untouched. And hence why Dell Biltmore took Rae off the market just when he did.”

Mikael felt a rapid wave of gratitude wash over him, followed closely by annoyance.

“Why didn’t anyone just _tell me_ what was going on?”  
Jaden exhaled.  
“Well, they can’t exactly print it in the handbook, now, can they? Anyway, I’m telling you, so it’s not like you’re left out.”  
“But — “  
“ **I’m** telling you.” Jaden repeated, then had another sip of his coffee. “Now, like I was saying — “

They were interrupted by the unannounced arrival of a chaperone at their table. Jaden looked up at the thing, warily.  
“Yes?”  
Without speaking, the chap deposited a blue-enveloped letter in Mikael’s hands. 

Jaden looked at the letter anxiously.  
“What’s this?”  
Mikael shrugged and turned to ask the chaperone, but the thing was already gone, lumbered off to parts unknown. 

Feeling nervous, Mikael tore open the envelope. Jade's coffee cup clinked against his teeth as he sipped from it carelessly.  
“Well?" the other carrier demanded, "Don’t keep me in suspense.”  
Mikael furrowed his brow as he read over the page.  
“It’s an invitation to lunch.”  
“From whom?”  
“Bruce.” Mikael said, quietly. 

Silence reigned for a moment, then Jaden exhaled and set his coffee cup down. His voice was strained, but he affected nonchalance.

“Well, he’s a good friend of Dell Biltmore, so that bodes well. He’s from the borderlands, as far as I know. Money made in — “  
“Oh, wait.” Mikael said, as something else tumbled into his hands. There was a second envelope, small and plain, stuck to the back of the third one. He tore it open.  
“There’s another one.”  
Jaden goggled at him.  
“Unbelievable! And you didn’t even go out last night. That face of yours, honestly — worth more than gold. Well!? Who’s it from?”

Mikael squinted down at the handwriting as he read over the note, then straightened up.  
“Admiral Holly.” he said, and looked up at Jade.

Jade’s mouth was turned in a strange mixture of surprise and bemusement.  
“Well.” he said, finally. “Now that _is_ a development.”


End file.
